


Batman: Arkham Knight - The Great Pretender

by TheStudyInRed



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily Feels, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gang Violence, Gun Violence, Language, Mental Anguish, Military Training, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 52
Words: 193,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStudyInRed/pseuds/TheStudyInRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the story. This is the story of how the Joker survived." Jason Todd knows better than to accept anything as it appears. He's living proof of that lesson. Six months after Bruce Wayne is unmasked as Batman and dead in the same evening, the world receives another heart attack in the form of a playing card and a Platters song. Todd knew better than to make friends now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. For My Next Trick, I Shall Become a Disappointment

**Author's Note:**

> Project I began months ago, and will continue until I'm content with it being finished. That won't happen anytime soon. So kick back, grab a drink, and enjoy. 
> 
> Best,  
> TheStudyInRed

Before I tell you this story, promise me something.

 

Thou shalt not judge, because thou hast fucked up before. It was something like that. I can’t remember how Alfred put it; it’s been too long.

 

My name is Jason Todd. By now, you and all of Gotham have heard me referred to as the Arkham Knight...but that’s not me. That was the anger and the rage talking through the voice changer. I cannot be that anymore.

 

It has been a year since I saved Batman...A year since Bruce Wayne, now outed to the world as Batman, was proclaimed dead... Alfred too. But I know better. All of us do. If I could slip under his nose and come back from death, it would be child’s play for him. My guess? He’s under the radar God-knows-where with Alfred close by... I told Dick as much when things calmed down and we ran into each other for the first time since...since Joker. Dick would not have it that Bruce would just up and leave Gotham.

 

It wasn’t news to me. This would be the second time Bruce has abandoned me for the mission, only this time...it was because the mission was complete.

 

Whatever the changes, more stays the same. It was four months after Bruce left that the criminals that he imprisoned managed to get out again. Riddler, Dent, Penguin, Blackfire, all of them...But it was not the inevitable breaking out that they typically did themselves with little help from outside...someone broke them out. The mission was not complete...What was different about this was the calling card.

 

His card. A simple playing card to the naked eye. Until you read it.

 

The face on the card was the jester, but it was painted to look like Joker...A simple playing card, with a simple message. They say the Platters were playing on an old radio by the cells when they found it.

 

“Oh yes, I’m the Great Pretender...pretending that I’m doing well. My need is such, I pretend too much. I’m lonely, but no one can tell…”

 

I know what this looks like. I know what it looks like to the family. Funny, having one of those again. Or at least something that resembled one. Barbara thinks it’s all a ruse, some hoax by a Joker fanatic. It’s happened before, so I can’t fault her for buying into that theory. Apparently, her dad thinks so too. But the film Joker sent to Batman with my death was a hoax too...and here I am. Tim’s on the fence with this nearly as much as he is with Bruce’s “death”. I haven’t heard from Dick about it, but I know what he’s thinking. What we’re all thinking.

 

And I know what the worst thing for me to do if he’s back...I know what the most dangerous thing to have is. I know what his favorite tool for torture is, and I made the same mistake that got me in his clutches again.

 

I made a friend.


	2. The Thunderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been six months since Batman, now outed to the world as Bruce Wayne, faked his death. Gotham is in recovery from the militia occupation, as is the man who made it all happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "All that the Thunderer wrung from thee  
> Was but the menace which flung back  
> On him the torments of thy rack;  
> The fate thou didst so well foresee,  
> But would not to appease him tell;  
> And in thy Silence was his Sentence,  
> And in his Soul a vain repentance,  
> And evil dread so ill dissembled,  
> That in his hand the lightnings trembled."
> 
> \- Lord Byron, "Prometheus"
> 
> ............................

You get accustomed to the smell of blood. But it’s never just blood with me, is it? The vents in my tactical mask were taking in the smell of blood, gunmetal, leather and kevlar, and the hot sweat collecting behind my neck as the truck screamed past Grant Park. I stole a glance down at my busted left leg as the right one held the gas to the floor. The pain racing up my body sent white sparks across my red vision as my hand closed around the knife stuck in my thigh. I grunted as a dip in the road shifted it and I let go of the knife to get a better grip on the steering wheel. Why is Lady Luck always playing hard to get with me?

 

I checked my rear view mirrors, the attack chopper gaining on me. Okay, I admit it. Probably shouldn’t have made the joke about Bane looking like something that got run over on the freeway. Or shot him. But in my defense, he was dragging Harley Quinn out of bed by her hair for a reason I was still trying to work out. I needed to know why, and the tracker in the bullet I shot into Bane should tell me where he takes her. I kept my shaking hands tight on the wheel to steady them - FPHSHHHH - Shit, shit, shit. I wrenched the truck to the left, just missing the missile as it slammed into a small flower shop and picking up the speed. The April spring flowers exploded all over the street, and flower petals on fire fluttered to the ground like snow in my mirrors. I struggled to get the gasp out of my lungs, get a full breath as Bane’s chopper banked that corner - still on my tail.

 

“Is the barricade up?” I heard Bane growl into his communications, and I tapped the side of my mask to up the volume.

 

“Si, how long until contact?”

 

“Not long, get ready. The Red Hood is wounded, breaking him should not take long.”

 

I rolled my eyes. What is it with Bane and having to ‘break’ people? Sounds like his boys have worked out a little surprise for me. I loved surprises. Bane’s chopper did not shoot at me further, just breathed down my neck for the next few seconds. The road meandered and I saw the roadblock. Must be thirty men, a couple of armored trucks and the concrete barricades making an effective wall across the two-lane street.

 

A dark smile curled at my mouth. “Oh Bane, you shouldn’t have…”

 

Holding my foot still to the floor, I drew my handgun. Easily finding the familiar grip, there goes a couple of shots to break the windshield - the glass covering me and crunching as I moved. I cover-fired into the crowd of Bane’s men as the truck was nearly on them, using my other hand to grab two grenades from my belt and pinned them between my legs, ripping out the pins with my index and middle fingers. One of their bullets whizzed under my ear and grazed my neck, a strangled noise escaping my throat at it. My wounded leg protested by sending lightning strikes of pain through my core, blurring my vision, as I let the grenades fall to the floorboards. I flicked the pins from my hand to grab my grapple gun, positioning my trigger finger.

 

The truck hit the barricades with a bang like a bomb going off, my body still moving through the windshield and through the air like a bird. Without a nanosecond to spare and barely able to see, I twitched my hand and let the fire surprise me - the grapple gun launching at a lamppost a solid three blocks behind the men. It felt like my brain slammed into the back of my head, making me dizzy - though I’m fairly sure that was the leg. The shiver that went through the air as the grenades exploded cracked another wild grin out of me as I sped ahead. I strained my eyes forward, my thumb finding the stopper on the grapple gun - I swung around the lamppost and flung myself, the grapple disengaging from the post - down an alley.

 

I landed on my side, thankfully not the side with the bad leg and my tactical hood cracked in two as my head impacted, but I tucked my arms in to roll a short ways, distribute the force.The air rushed out of my lungs, and it took me a half-second to both breathe and lift my head. I pushed myself up, stretching my fingertips out and finding the wall. My leg was killing me as I braced myself against the brick of the alley, forcing it to take weight to allow me to stand. I grit my teeth, tightened my hands to fists. I knew I still had another two magazines in the pocket of my biker jacket, and let that thought - and that thought alone - console me as I limped down this alley. Bane might not have been caught in the explosion, and he’s likely unhappy that I blew up a lot of his guys just now.

 

I bent down to pick up my Hood, staring at the face for a second before tossing it into the dumpster a few feet from my left. My black matted hair hung in my face as I focused my eyes on the dimness of the alley. Come on, Jason. Keep moving, I told myself. I couldn’t stay here.

 

I retreated up the alley, ignoring the hot trickle of blood both from my neck and my leg; my hand at the brick guided me. This night was only lit by the full moon, who decided to help me out by peeking out from behind a cloud. I was drenched in sweat and blood and the dank air of this Gotham City alleyway. Each breath tasted like filth and gothic brickwork, each cough hurt. My head felt as if it were splitting down the middle, my hand braced against my handgun holster at my strong hip.

 

I vaguely remembered something I read while I was still Robin, though I’m not sure why I’m thinking of Marx right now. “The only antidote for mental suffering is physical pain.” I had been in far, far worse pain than this. A year of nothing but pain at the hands of a madman. A madman among madmen. A gash in my neck, a knife in my leg, and a possible concussion is not the worse of it...But in some strange part of my head, I was exhaling in relief as I flipped between pain and more pain as I trudged down this alley. There is still so much work to be done to help my psychological pain...but for now, I’ve got plenty of distraction.

 

Sometimes, I think if it weren’t for my sense of humor I’d be long gone in the head.

 

Like Bruce, I was reborn from my traumas in the form of my worst fear. No more Arkham Knight, and hello Red Hood. I became the better Batman needed desperately by the good people of this city, unafraid of getting my hands a little filthy...though the feeling of unfinished business weighed in my gut. I don’t know why. Bruce was gone, Joker was dead. Was it because I didn’t get to say goodbye to Alfred?

 

I saw the alleyway in front of me ending with a concrete guardrail, leading into a parking garage...I gazed up the building. An apartment complex. I was so tired. I rested my hands on the cold top of the guardrail, throwing one leg over it and crying out when I heaved the stabbed leg over. I slumped to the asphalt between two cars, my legs stretched out over the parking space.

 

I heard an engine, my eyes getting heavy. My head hung over my lap, and my eyes found the blood-red Batsymbol on my chest. I wasn’t done yet. I needed to finish his work.

 

Lights exploded off the glass at the back of the car to my right, the sound of screeching brakes, and I flinched so badly I fell over in front of the maniac who’d nearly squashed me. My face scratching off the asphalt, my eyes slipped closed... the horn honking in my ears…

 

The car door opening, soft scrapes of shoes and a gasp. The shoes got closer, and I could almost get the words out, but not quite. Help...me….

 

My last recollection before I passed out was the sensation of small, feminine hands on my chest, over my heart. A couple of fingers under my jaw, feeling for a slowing pulse.


	3. Bitter World of Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has found the Red Hood lying in their parking space, bleeding from a leg and unconscious. What's the logical thing to do? Drive off and pretend nothing happened. What's the most idiotic thing to do? Help him.   
> Or at least, that's what Jason thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In our light bitter world of wrong
> 
> They come; God gives us them awhile.
> 
> His speech is in their stammering tongue,
> 
> And his forgiveness in their smile.”
> 
>  
> 
> Victor Hugo, “The Poor Children”

I could hear the voices as I felt my aching body being carried out of a car seat. I couldn't move, but my ears weren't broken.

 

"Jesus, girl. This guy's heavy." This voice was gruff, old and distinctly male. He struggled under my gut as he hastily made his way up stairs. I heard the ding of an elevator. Nausea clouded my head as the elevator lurched upwards, and I fought letting the bile rising up in my throat out. A young woman's voice, not afraid but calm and with a measured steadiness, replied to the first voice.

 

"Just please don't tell Mrs. Ripley. She'll be up all night and I've already got enough casserole to feed a small army."

 

Stop talking about food. Please. Right now. Stop.

 

A throaty chuckle. "I won't tell a soul, darlin'. You don't like my wife's casserole?"

 

My stomach did complicated acrobatics, and I groaned in my head. The elevator stopped.

 

"No, no. Donna's a wonderful cook. Just when I get three full pans a week because she's worried about me..." She trailed off, and I was so close to throwing up my face hurt from holding it back. "I appreciate you coming out at the drop of a hat, Trevor."

 

I heard the clinking of a door unlocking and the dry smell of old records, books and tea hit me full blast in the face. Trevor took seven steps from the door and then let me down onto a couch, my leg protesting dully as he did so.

 

"Anytime. However...he has a couple of guns on him, a knife wound and the Batman's symbol on his chest...are you sure you should be helping this guy?" Instead of the mild pragmatism, he held genuine concern in his voice.

 

"I searched him in the car. I know what he had on him. A couple of guns, a knife, a grapple gun and three grenades is not that farfetched in Gotham." She sighed. "I'm going to tend to his wounds, do a good deed for once and then send him on his merry way. Promise."

 

"I just don't want you getting hurt, Abigail. I'm proud of you for doing the decent thing but don't get into trouble...Goodnight."

 

"Night, Trevor. Again, thanks."

 

The door shut, and could finally feel my arms coming out of numbness. A light flicked on, and I cringed away from the light, my eyes hurting.

 

"Here's hoping." She said quietly, before I heard her kicking off her sneakers and coming towards me, barefoot.

 

My stomach couldn't wait, I opened my eyes and buckled over the edge of the couch. Mostly water erupted from my mouth and onto a hardwood floor with a sickening noise. I coughed almost violently, struggling to sit upright. When I stopped coughing long enough to see, a pair of white hands offered me a blue basin to vomit in. I waved her off and grimaced at the mess. It was small, and my stomach is starting to settle, but I still feel guilty for puking on the nice lady’s wood floor. At least I missed the coffee table. Well, how about that for first impressions.

 

She scowled at my unease while I tried not to breath in too deeply. "Don't sweat it too much, I’ve been meaning to clean the floor but haven’t had the occasion to...How do you feel?"

 

She went to somewhere behind me, where I guessed her kitchen was. The faucet turned on and I heard the distinct metallic singing of water splashing onto copper.

 

“Like death warmed over,” I muttered, my eyes finding the knife in my thigh.

 

I leaned forward, inspecting it and wincing as I tested the length of the blade by moving it as gently as I could in a circle. I bit my lip at the sharp shooting of pain up and down my leg. I took the blade fully in my hand, and before I could reason myself out of doing it, yanked the blade out as swiftly as I possibly could. I heard her swearing behind me, footsteps and then thin fingers pried the knife from my hand. Hastily, she set up a dinner stand beside me and dropped the knife on a white towel she threw there.

 

“You’re lucky it’s a little knife, or else we’d have a big problem,” Abigail scolded, and as she bent down to examine the three inch stab wound, a mane of dirty blonde hair curtained her face from me. She wore a black Gotham U tee, though the holes at the shoulders made me think it’s been a while, so she clearly wasn’t a student any more.

 

I did not know her face yet, and I’m not even sure I would have wanted to know her name, given the choice. It’s been my experience that the people that help me out end up causing me a lot of pain down the road. No matter how good their initial intentions are at any point in that time. And what’s worse, is that if the Joker really is coming back...it is too dangerous to make any kind of friends.

 

This didn’t stop my pride from opening my mouth. “You know knives?”

 

“I know enough.” The way she said that made it clear that I wasn’t to press further, not that I wanted to. She stood suddenly, moving quickly to the kitchen to carry over the essentials for stitching up a couple of wounds: a small copper pan full of slightly steaming water, a cotton cloth, a sewing needle and thread, a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a cool calm. She’s done this before, I realized.

 

As she busied herself with readying materials, I took a quick once-over on the room. The place was L-shaped; the kitchen was behind me and an attached dining set was across from it with the door between them. The wall to my left was floor-to-ceiling book shelves, and not a single space was unused except one, which held a black record-player and twin speakers. Books, a shelf full of matching books I guessed were encyclopedias and reference, and an entire row at eye-level with me was full of vinyl records.

 

On her last trip from the kitchen, she threw a blue towel over the mess on the floor and propped a couple of beers on her knee. Smacking the tops off using the corner of the coffee table with a practiced hand, she outstretched one to me and before I could stop myself, I saw her face.

 

“Drink, it’ll take the edge off the pain.”

 

The first thing I noticed were the eyes, the exact dark blue-gray of Gotham Bay during a thunderstorm. A line of bangs that stopped just above her eyebrows framed them. Her features were angular in the edges of her face, and my old pastime of studying different faces on the computer screen in the Batcave poked up as I looked at her. Her upper lip was a tad fuller than her lower one, but her lower one, near the right corner, had a mark like a dash that was raised against the rest, made more prominent as she smiled - a scar. If I hadn’t been good at picking out seemingly little details on faces, I wouldn’t have noticed it. She had a splash of freckles on her nose and the tops of her cheeks. But at the outers of her eyes, there were subtle lines where she might someday have crows’ feet. Despite the youthful freckles, she might be a bit older than she looks.

 

I gave her a curt nod as means of thanks, taking the beer. She clinked her bottle gently against mine at the neck. “Bottoms-up.”

 

“Cheers,” I said, my mouth fighting a full smile.

 

We drank. The crispness of the beer was refreshing and much appreciated to get the leftover vomit taste out of my mouth. Abigail set her beer on the dinner stand next to her tools. She threw her hair up into a sloppy bun, shoved a corduroy pillow under my knee and began work. Tearing open the hole in my pantleg the knife wound left a bit wider, she started with that. She got a patch of her cotton cloth soaked in peroxide and I braced myself as she pressed it against the wound. The stinging was next to frustrating.

 

I growled a couple of dirty words at my sheer bad luck. Abigail snorted. “Well, sorry. Can’t make this much easier for you.”

 

True, that. I could’ve gotten an eighty-year-old lady trying to voodoo me back to perfect health. Instead I’ve got a cold beer in my hand, a lady who clearly has some clue of what she’s doing, and she isn’t asking questions like what my name was, or how I-

 

“How’d this happen to you?” Her question shot right through my thoughts like an arrow.

 

I squinted at her. So much for that. I replied under my breath, “Spelunking.”

 

“What?”

 

“Spelunking,” I said a bit louder, unable to keep the smirk out of my mouth. I lifted my beer, and was about to take a sip when I added, “You know, cave diving.”

 

“Ah, daring and a jokester,” Abigail deduced smoothly, without looking up from her work but with this funny little smile on her face. An ‘I know something you don’t’ kind of smile. “Mystery man, I have no clue how you got these wounds but I know it wasn’t spelunking. Fortunately for you, I’m not the prying type. I asked merely to make conversation. But here’s what I do know...” She sighed, her breath making the exposed skin of my leg shiver. “I do know that the red bat on your chest, the weaponry you were packing, and the muscular physique likely makes you the Red Hood.”

 

My jaw tightened. I’d nearly forgotten about that. I chastised myself internally; this wasn’t the time to get careless. She looked up at me as if reminding me that she knew my face now, too. I said lowly to her, a wry expression upon my mouth, “And what do you plan to do with that info? If you know I’m ‘likely’ the Red Hood, you know that I don't share Batman's no - kill rule."

 

"I plan to keep it to myself, to be quite honest with you," She leveled her eyes with mine, holding my gaze. "Information like that is dangerous to have in Gotham. Gets people hurt...which begs the question I'm sure you're asking yourself. If you're the Red Hood - or likely to be as this is all hypothetical..."

 

"Of course."

 

She dipped her needle in peroxide and began the stitching process. "If so, why help you? Why help a vigilante who isn't afraid to give criminals just what they dish out to others?"

 

I drank from my beer, pensive as to just what that answer would be. What were her motives for helping me? Why not just run me over and do the world a favor?

 

Abigail rested her hand on my knee, and I looked at her. "Hey. I helped you because I agree with you, mystery man." She glanced to her bookcase, her eyes narrowing on a shelf. "Not for the reasons Immanuel Kant would like. But not all of us have the luxury of being emotionally detached to do just things simply because they are just." She cracked a knowing grin at that, and then talked as if she knew the guy personally. "Kant was a grumpy old coot of a philosopher anyway."

 

She was silent for a few minutes after that, focusing on stitching up my leg. Didn’t take much time until I had finished my beer and was working on the remainder of hers that she gave me. She spoke suddenly, “Goodness, my mother is turning in her grave at my manners. Didn’t even introduce myself and I’m discussing my philosophical views with you. I’m Abigail. If my hands weren’t covered in blood and peroxide, I’d shake your hand.”

 

I already knew her name, but how quickly she got ahead of herself made me laugh a little, albeit painfully. Mirroring what she said earlier, I shrugged and said, “Don’t sweat it too much.”

 

She finished the thick stitches on my leg, tying off the thread. Grabbing a jar from the stand and twisting it open, she dipped a finger inside and slid what I assumed to be some kind of antibacterial cream over the finished stitch. “There; now for the nasty slice on your neck.”

 

She scooted closer to me on the couch, her hip brushing mine. She helped me out of my kevlar, taking the hem of my shirt and pulling it back over my head. She directed my head to the side and I held the collar of my undershirt back from my neck. She scanned over it thoughtfully, her fingers playing at the skin.

 

“This isn’t that bad, you won’t need stitches. Just need to clean it and get a bandage on it to prevent infection.”

 

I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

She readied a fresh cotton cloth with peroxide and before she went in to clean the wound, I decided I would try to joke with her. To see if I could.

 

“Necking on the first date?” I held her wrist gently, and clicked my tongue. “Tsk tsk.”

 

Abigail snorted as I let her go, rolling her eyes. She pressed the flat of her hand against the cloth with a little too much pressure, and the stinging that resulted had me wincing. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

 

“Yeah,” My voice dripped of sarcasm, “Gentle.”

 

Taking her time, she carefully cleaned my gash. After, she replaced the cloth with a bandage, ending the patch-up. She leaned back and stretched, popping her knuckles as she assessed her work a final time - both on the leg and the neck. My chest felt strangled in a fist for a second. She reminded me of Alfred, so meticulous.

 

“Listen…” I started, looking her hard in the eye. “Not many people, knowing what you do about me, would have helped me. Probably would have just left me there. I appreciate you doing this, Abigail.”

 

She stared at me for a long while. Finally, she patted the back of my hand and collected our beers. “Give me something to call you other than ‘mystery man’ and I’ll call it even.”

 

Without waiting to see if I’d say anything, she stood up and got to putting her supplies away. I guess she didn’t think I would. Not that I’m sure why I would. I mean, she probably saved me a lot of trouble bleeding out in that parking garage but if she meant what she said about not telling anyone about this...Maybe I could give her my name.

 

She came back to clean up the mess on the floor with the towel she’d thrown down and a wipe. “Either way, just promise me you won’t get up in the middle of the night and be gone by the time I wake up. Those stitches can’t be screwed with or stretched for a couple of days at least. The bandage needs to be changed too.”

 

“You got it.” I said over my shoulder, running a hand through my hair and breaking up the tangles.

 

“Do you need anything else?” She asked me when the space was clean and there didn’t seem to be much else that she could do for me.

 

I shook my head. “You’ve done more than enough. Take the night off.”

 

At that, she picked the hair tie out of her bun and let her hair down, shaking it out. She walked somewhere out of my view, and when she came back, the jeans she had been wearing had been traded for black sweats. Same Gotham U tee, still barefoot. She strided to the shelves, and picked out a record.

 

“You know, I always thought that Gotham’s Otisburg was named for Otis Redding…”

 

I grinned to myself at that. I closed my eyes, tilting my head back to rest on the arm of the couch. Soon, the kind voice and the old timey music filled the room and my ears. I peeked an eye out and saw Abigail in the armchair by the window, an iron floorlamp over her shoulder as she read a dilapidated book, the title I couldn’t read.

I sunk lower in the couch and threw an arm over my eyes. I took a leap of faith.

 

“Jason... name’s Jason.”

 

A silence. Otis was still singing. ‘Sittin’ on the dock of the bay...wastin’ time..’

 

As I drifted to sleep, I heard her say with a smile in her voice. “Pleasure to meet you, Jason.”

 

Pleasure to meet you too, Abigail. Pleasure to meet you, too.


	4. Out the Hallelujahs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, the girl's name is Abigail and for all Jason knows, she could be an axe murderer that chops up cats and pizza delivery guys in her spare room. But she saved his sorry ass, and that's all he cares about.   
> Bottom line: him being there puts her in harm's way. Decisions, decisions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
> 
> From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low
> 
> Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so
> 
> Who art not missed by any that entreat.
> 
> Speak to mo as to Mary at thy feet !
> 
> And if no precious gums my hands bestow,
> 
> Let my tears drop like amber while I go
> 
> In reach of thy divinest voice complete
> 
> In humanest affection -- thus, in sooth,
> 
> To lose the sense of losing. As a child,
> 
> Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore
> 
> Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth
> 
> Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,
> 
> He sleeps the faster that he wept before.”
> 
>  
> 
> Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “Comfort”

 

I remember my first nightmare. I was about seven or eight. Back in that old house within spitting distance of Crime Alley. The night my dad, who pulled a gun on my mom and then just left in a fit of rage. Sometimes I like to think it was because he couldn’t bear putting a bullet into the mother of his kid. But I know it was because he was in the “criminal element” chest-deep as it is, and Two-Face was breathing down his neck for a screwed-up job smuggling drugs into Gotham. That was the last time I saw him.

That night, my mother held me until she stopped crying. A week later, she overdosed and I was left with her lifeless body, crying with tear-slippery hands and little arms too weak to carry her. Eventually, the neighbors heard me screaming and found us.

I don’t remember much after that until the time I was in that trouble youth’s home that turned out to be a front for a whack job of a crime school. But my first nightmare was around that time. A memory so terrifying and it swallowed everything else up, making everything bleed into it sometimes when I think back. And it didn’t even happen. It changed throughout my life, but it was always the same sort of thing killing me.

I still avoid sleep where I can because of this same terror. The terror of...

……….

 

_DROWNING, I screamed without sound into the liquid, and something strange and tight filling up my lungs.  My eyes opened but I couldn’t tell if I was still dead, it was so black. I was that little boy again of seven or eight in my worn shirt and secondhand Levi’s, hands clutching at my chest - flailing around helplessly._

_There was no light anywhere to swim to, no chance or hope of escape. I could twist in this hot, sticky black liquid, kick as hard as I can into nothing, but I could not breathe. This slow drowning, this slow suffocation of all light and purging of hope lasts for three minutes. But there are awful nights where it does not take me more than a minute to scream myself awake._

 

_Somewhere in this water, a clear white mask with red lips drawn up in a deranged smile and fluorescent green hair, shining red eyes...watch me struggle. At first, the mask could have been yards away, but in a blink, he is too close - but not close enough that when I reach out with my hand, my fingertips are dangerously close to poking his eye out... In my head, though the lips don’t move...I hear the words as I try to cover my ears with my hands to block the sound…as he spoke, I felt the barbed wire dig into my forearms and my chest like in that wretched chair..._

 

_“Batman’s not coming to save you, Jason.”_

 

_I shut my eyes in recoil from the vulgar laughing of that voice, and when I opened them again, the water everywhere had somehow been turned to blood. Blood in my lungs, choking me and as I clawed at my chest, my fingers found the ‘R’ again and again - reminding me of who I was, and who I would never be again._

 

_The white mask was now splotchy and diseased, and the mouth now moved to cough disgustingly at me through the lake of blood I was dying in. A distorted memory…_

 

_“There’s a little bit of me inside you too, Jason.”_

 

_A pull, a tug, and I felt that something beneath me, beneath us, had just yanked out the plug to this pool of blood that surrounded me. I fought to grab at the mask, but as I swirled down the tubes, the mask just laughed from above, the same laughter after the ‘J’ was branded onto my cheek...marking me as his. That deep, hysteric, awful laughter..._

 

_All was falling. Something snatched me out of the air, the blood falling onto a floor that wasn’t there a moment ago. My hands were suddenly bound above my head, and my legs weren’t quite long enough to touch the floor. I stared down at my chest, but it was not the Robin uniform that became another skin to me for over a year...a skin I hated. It was the red bat on my chest now. My symbol of...reformation._

 

_Around me, everywhere, was smoke. Smoke thicker than water. Out of all of this, I felt relief. Smoke was better than blood. I’ve breathed smoke for most of my life, my lungs could do smoke. My lungs have choked on blood for over a year before...but smoke was easier than blood._

 

_I tried to see anything, my shoulders and arms on fire dangling from this hook. Then I saw them. Then I saw HIM. Joker in that garish purple suit of his, with his arm around….No. The dark blue eyes that had scanned my wounds for any signs of infection, the sandy hair framing the horror in her expression and the alertness that had every part of her on edge at the gun he pointed at her head now. Abigail._

 

_“You know what happens when you drag your friends into this crazy little game of ours.” He whispers in her ear with a grin, but his eyes are on me. His eyes are always on me._

 

_The snarl ripped up my throat. “You get the hell away-”_

 

_He pulls the trigger, her brains spray out in a red-gray fan and-_

 

I jolted awake with a yelp, twisting the bad leg in reflex under a blanket that wasn’t there when I fell asleep and white-hot streaks of pain flew up my body. I heard a crash behind me, turning to see her staring at me with concern and slight annoyance. A broken plate with eggs on it was on the ground at her bare feet, along with a shattered glass and orange juice made the hardwood floor appear orange.

 

I tried to say ‘sorry’, but the words got lodged in my throat and just looking at Abigail right now felt like choking. Seeing my grimace, her eyebrows lifted. “Are you alright, Jason?”

 

Her saying my name felt weird and wrong. After what I’d just seen in my sleep, I seriously regretted telling her my name. It made her a target. But she’d helped me...No. That made her an even bigger target. She knelt, beginning to pick up the pieces.

 

“I’m great.” I managed to say, rubbing the bridge of my nose. The brand on my cheek felt hot, like a siren she couldn’t hear was going off but I could...and it drove me up the wall. “Sorry for the scare, and the food.”

 

“Honestly, you probably did yourself a favor,” She said with a laugh, “I’m an awful cook. I just wanted to be a good host. I should just stick to philosophy.”

 

I eyed her over and said blankly. “Philosophy?”

 

“Mhm,” She nodded, straightening and jerking her chin at the dining table behind her with a proud light to her eyes. “My sweet and strict muse. I’m working on a master’s degree in it. Was just editing my thesis on how rotting, corrupt environments can thwart the natural laws of justice and what steps can be taken to correct it.”

 

I whistled in approval, smiling with one corner of my mouth. "I suppose it's safe to say you didn't get into it for the money?"

 

I shoved my hand in my pocket and pinched my leg hard. I had to stop letting her talk to me. If I did that, I’d convince myself it was okay to come back once I left. I’d convince myself that Abigail could be a friend. Maybe I’ve already begun to convince myself of that.

 

“Oh no...Unlike ninety-nine-point-nine percent of Gotham, money doesn’t terribly interest me,” She shrugged as she tossed the glass and food. “It’s not a primary concern of mine, really.”

 

Against my better judgment, I was about to ask her what her primary concern was. What drove her. But a phone started ringing from behind me. As she walked into the kitchen towards the noise, I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.Come on, Jay. You’ve known this chick, what - a day? You’re an idiot. You got no right coming into this girl’s life and screwing her over because you’re lonely and want a friend that didn’t give up on you more than once already. She’s a grad student who doesn’t care about money, likes books and old good music and you’re trying to fuck up her life.

 

I wished I could tell myself I only heard my own voice when I scolded my own stupidity..

 

Her voice was full of caution as she answered the phone. “Hello?...This is Abigail Byron, who is this?...” She walked out to the bookshelves as she listened, wedging the phone between her ear and her shoulder. I watched, listened close. Suddenly, she took her phone away and pressed it to her collarbone as she said to me, “Do you know a Barbara?”

 

Of course. I nodded. Babs tracked me down. Abigail handed me the phone. I cleared my throat and bit my lip. “Babs?”

 

A sigh of relief from the other end. “ _Jason, tell me you’re alright._ ”

 

I glanced down at my stitched leg, my cheek still hurting. “More or less.”

 

“ _Dick’s on his way to pick you up. Try not to punch him.”_

 

“No promises.” I clicked the ‘end’ button and handed the phone back to Abigail without looking at her. I closed my eyes. I had to do it. “Someone’s coming to pick me up.”

 

Her voice was on edge. “...pick you up? Like coming to try to kidnap you for torture ‘pick you up’ or they’re going to get you home and to a shower ‘pick you up’?”

 

“Both,” I rubbed the back of my neck, and then turned my eyes on her with a smirk, “I smell, huh?”

 

Looking over myself, I could see why. I was still in the white undershirt speckled pink with blood, torn at the neck and my pants were ripped and muddy. If I rated my current scent on a scale of daisies to bat shit - the latter of which I was intimately familiar with (Bruce used to make me clean the BatCave for injuring suspects) - I’d be a solid Ratcatcher left out in the sun. Now, that dude was  _disgusting_. My hair, I felt, was greasy and matted with dirt. Yeah...I suppose I could use a shower. Poor girl, I was getting dirt on her couch and the blanket she draped over me while I slept.

 

“Oh yes, it’s just been unbearable since the minute you got here,” Abigail’s sarcasm had the right mix of melodrama and just enough deadpan wit for it to be detectable.

 

“Ouch.” I joked back.

 

“This someone picking you up,” She began, pinning the phone in her armpit and bending over to examine the stitchwork she did on my leg. “A friend?”

 

My eyebrows came together. To say Dick Grayson is just a friend is like saying Alfred is just a butler. Granted, he stopped searching for me about the same time the big man did, but...even after all I did to Bruce, all I did to Gotham, helping Scarecrow kidnap Barbara, nearly letting that bastard blow Bruce’s brains out..

 

Sure, Dick had a go at me when we first saw each other again. But it took  _four hours_  of nonstop fighting, two broken windows, a few fractured bones and some nasty words until we got too tired to fight anymore. It took time, of course. It took a good bit of talking. It took us screaming at each other until we were both hoarse. It took him telling me what really happened while I was gone. It took him telling me how Bruce would spend weeks without speaking, just disappearing on patrol nights and coming back with cuts so deep that some of his batsuits were still stained. It took him telling me how Alfred pleaded and pleaded with him to stop burying his pain. It took him telling me just how wrong I had been about how Tim came into the picture. About how the little shit deduced who Bruce was and leaving him with no choice but to train him. It took him telling me exactly how much Alfred and Bruce and Barbara mourned me.

 

Now, Dick and I hadn’t really known each other when I was Robin. The times we ran into each other, I called him an obnoxious, arrogant ass and I’m pretty sure he thought the same of me. He saw me as a haphazard replacement of him running around with Bruce half-caught. I could relate. But since Scarecrow’s stunt six months ago...Dick and I both knew we couldn’t continue Bruce’s work - although we used different methods in doing so - alone. We came to an understanding. He did not patronize me over my lethal methods, the way Bruce used to and the way Tim does to this day. And I didn’t question the head-to-toe leotard he ran around in.

 

He was my advocate towards reforming...towards rejoining the family. If you could still call us a family.

 

“Yes he is.” I said quietly, glaring at my feet. “Why are you asking?”

 

She frowned, glancing up at me as her hair fell from her shoulder and shone in the sun. “No reason. Let’s see about your neck.”

 

She got closer to me, leaning in. She held my chin away with skinny fingers so she could peel back the bandage with her other hand. I stared at the ceiling with a purpose, tried hard not to think about how she smelled like yellowed books, spring sweat before rain and strawberry-scented deodorant and her breath as it hit my neck was warm and measured. As if she  _knew_ how to get close to someone but the way her fingertips were careful not to touch anywhere that wasn’t essential to checking the wound made me think she hadn’t done this a thousand times for a reason. A good reason. Maybe I knew something about that, maybe my head swam as her hair brushed the stubble at my jaw, maybe got caught in it as she tilted her head to get a better angle - maybe, just maybe-

 

_No._

 

I reached up with a too-rough hand and pushed her back none-too-gently by her shoulders. I smoothed the bandage down into place.“That’s enough. I’m good.”

 

Abigail had her hands outstretched, her eyes narrowed on me as if she didn’t know what just happened. Maybe she really didn’t. “I’ll take your word for it.”

 

“I’d appreciate that,” I said, my voice harsh.

 

I really didn’t want to do this to her, someone who helped me, but I did anyway. For her own good.

 

I inhaled, reverted my vocabulary to the thirteen-year-old shithead smartmouth I used to be and started talking. “Look, I’m glad you helped me out and all, but I never liked playing doctor.”

 

Her reaction was minute, but not unnoticeable. She crossed her arms, kept her face calm with one corner of her mouth pricked up in a half-smile. Steadily, she said a single word. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah, feeling me up while I’m laid up in bed ring a bell?” I laughed without mirth but thick with ingenuine mock. I propped my head on my hand and sat up straighter on her couch. “You’re a funny little chick. Pick me up bleeding off the street under the pretense that you agree with my  _methods?_ Let’s put all of our cards on the table, shall we, sunshine?”

 

I threw both legs over the edge of her couch and stood to my full height, a full head taller than her. Her eyebrows came together and her smile faded. I mimicked her pose, crossing my muscular arms over my chest and bent my neck to put our noses an inch apart. I had her attention, now I had the match lit.

 

I spoke through gritted teeth at the stabbing in my thigh. “You missed your chance, sunshine, my friend is on his way... but if you wanted to screw the Red Hood, all you had to do was say so.” Come on, Jason. You can do better than that.“What? Did you think I stayed the night because you’re a pretty college girl and you talk about morality in Gotham of all places? I know better than anyone that where we’re from, there is  _no sun_. There is no morality in this town.” I could tell she wanted to smack me, a muscle in her neck jumped. I raked a gaze down her birdlike body like I wanted to break it between my fists, trying to make myself seem as despicable as I could. “You’re not going to convince me that you’re a good girl. Who are you kidding?”

 

Come on, I almost willed out of her. Come on, girl. Hate me, throw me out the front door, do something. Something so I don’t have to see Joker tear you apart. Burn this bridge before it has a chance to be built. I searched her eyes for the telltale signs of it. The fists clenching, the teeth gritting, the eyes narrowing, the face turning red...He taught me how to read the eyes. Positive emotions, the pupils open. The emotions I was trying to provoke out of her, anger and maybe fear, the pupils close. But her eyes did neither.

 

Abigail’s stormy eyes stayed fixed on mine. Her pupils did not move. We were so close that I could see the movements of every dark eyelash as she switched from one of my eyes to the other.

 

Ever so slow, she said, “Who are  _you_ kidding? I was paid once to read people, and you’re a fascinating book if ever I saw one... You didn’t flinch once when I was stitching your leg. Your tirade of moments ago proves that you have a genuine, outstanding disregard and distrust for courtesy and human decency. You kill criminals without a second thought, if what I’ve heard about the Red Hood is true. The bat you wear on your chest shows you have an important connection to the Dark Knight, but spit on his no-kill rule…” Her smile returned, only it was pitying one. “Do you think that you’re a capital-H hardass because you gave Batman the finger once or twice?”

 

“You don’t know anything about me.”

 

“I know you were calling out for someone in your sleep.” She replied automatically, “Someone named ‘Bruce’. And I know that your distrust of kindness had to start somewhere, most likely from a string of cruelties. Maybe betrayal. But that’s not your fault, Jason. None of that is your fault.” She held her hands up, her white palms facing me. “Now, if you stay or go, come visit me, do my laundry - that’s up to you, makes little difference to me. You can leave right in the middle of my next sentence and you won’t hurt my feelings...I know something about dishing out misplaced anger just to make yourself feel safe.” She sighed, and pressed one of her hands to my right shoulder, her thumb on my collarbone. “But how much longer can a person live disguising loneliness with cruelty?”

 

As if she had burned me I stepped out of her hand, her scorching fingertips trailing over my heart. I plucked my kevlar vest from the arm of the couch and limped out of her apartment. I focused my thoughts on how my thigh was killing me as I made my way to the elevator through dim lights, and on hard concrete floor that did nothing to help me. I got inside the elevator, punched the button for the garage where Dick should be by now and leaned against the wall, head throbbing. I tried not to think, but the same words were bouncing off the walls of my skull. Loneliness. Cruelty. Kindness. Distrust. Betrayal. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce. I called for him? Really?

 

The doors opened again, and leaving that tiny box should have been a relief. But it tasted bitter like guilt on my tongue. I panned a look across the parking garage, and saw the familiar blue compact coming around the corner. It jutted in towards me and once the car stopped, I saw the lean arm reach over and push open the door for me.

 

Dick’s voice was annoyingly cheery, and as soon as I slipped into the passenger side without any semblance of grace, he dropped an open Dunkin Donuts box into my lap. “Mornin’, Jay. Hope you didn’t have breakfast already, got you some fuel.”

I thought of Abigail’s eggs on the floor over shards of glass, and stared at the white-and-pink box. “Thanks.”

 

Dick’s Pontiac always smelled a little funky, and my nose wrinkled as he drove us out of the garage. But I suppose he doesn’t want to dig out of the inheritance Bruce left him to get something sportier, and he wasn’t buying anything solely on a police salary.

 

“What happened last night? Where’d you go?” He interrogated me, picking a blueberry donut hole out of the box and popping it into his mouth.

 

“Well, I was on a stakeout at Harley Quinn’s place, because if Joker needed an accomplice, she’d either be his first or last choice. I was betting on first choice, so I waited about an hour until Bane showed up and kidnapped her right out of her bed.” I decided on a plain glazed donut hole.

 

“Yeah, Babs filled me in on the whole Bane thing, she’s tracking the bullet you shot into him as we speak. What I’m talking about is after your hood’s comm signal went off,” Dick shot me a knowing look with a grin, as we passed Gotham City Hall on our way to the clocktower, I presumed. “I want to know who the girl is.”

 

Dick’s phone went off, playing a Red Hot Chili Peppers song I didn’t recognize (which weren’t many in number). He drove with his knee while he unzipped his jacket to dive a hand into the inner breast pocket for his phone. I watched him with an eyebrow raised as he saw the caller ID, glancing at the road.

 

“Babs,” He said as he answered and tapped the button for the speaker. “Hey Babs, I got Jason and we’re on our way to you.”

 

“ _Yeah, about Jason…”_

 

“What’s up, Barbara?” I asked aloud, leaning closer so she could hear me better.

 

“ _The girl that answered the phone, how did you end up in her apartment?”_

 

Dick’s grin was wide and white and I had an urge to punch it in, but resigned to say, “She found me last night while I was unconscious and took me to her apartment, patched me up. Why?”

 

“ _I just ran a search on Abigail Byron out of curiosity.”_ Barbara’s voice sounded flat. “ _Found something you might want to know.”_

 

“What’s that?” I almost wanted to tell her to keep it to herself, because I wasn’t going to see Abigail again. But I didn’t.

 

“ _Abigail Byron doesn’t exist.”_


	5. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, across Gotham...a deal is about to go down that will change the face of crime in Gotham for the foreseeable future.

**THREE DAYS LATER**

 

No one was untouchable. No one was beyond the reach of those with enough motive...or no motive whatsoever. Gabriel Winters, editor of the  _Gotham Gazette_ , learned this the hard way and has been paying for it ever since. Winters had reported it all: from every scandal involving a socialite to the high-profile trials - and subsequent insanity pleas - of the Dark Knight’s ever-famous Rogues Gallery. Each line of crow's’ feet at the outer corners of his eyes had an article attributed to it that gave him plenty of backlash, the smoker’s lines on his mouth from each clearly blind story about philanthropy from the Falcone family, and the graying hair at his temples came both from enduring Jack Ryder’s tactless daily brown-nosing and from the fact that none of Gabe’s living family could stand to be in the same room as him.

 

He might have been handsome once, possibly charming as he opened a box of Cubans and lit one at the end of a trying day. He was going to hit the wrong side of forty-five next week, and tried not to think about how lonely it’d be with every effort. He had the thicker dark lashes around his eyes that seemed to make his amber eyes more luminous, the tanned skin still wrapped around his jawline in the way that women might pay attention to. Gabe had done a lot of running after stories in his time as a young reporter, and maintained some of that muscle, been careful, so his limbs remained slender. He had all his mid-brown hair by some stroke of luck, he reckoned, and combed it away from his face, kept it down with a bit too much hairspray. Loosening his tie, ol’ Gabe tilted his chair back, crossed his ankles on top of his desk and held the cigar in one hand, Ms. Vale’s latest proposal on furthering the Wayne conspiracy in the other.

 

Gabe shook his head at the paper, his ink-stained hands tossing it decidedly back onto the desk.

 

“One day, she’ll get it. Bruce Wayne is dead.” He wondered why Vicki Vale couldn’t let it go and then remembered the line of work they both were in. He rolled his eyes at the thought.

 

The phone on his desk beeped, and he took the cigar out of his mouth, blew smoke and pressed the button to the secretary’s intercom. He said with a note of exhaustion in his voice, “Janice, I’m not here. Tell whatever schmuck is there to make an appointment like everyone else.”

 

“ _Mr. Winters, now is that any way to treat an old friend?”_ Came a gravelly but cool voice from the other end, a shiver shaking its way down Gabriel’s spine.

 

After a moment and a deep breath, he said, “Janice, show him in.”

 

He reunited the cigar with his mouth and put that hand over his eyes, became a statue. The lighting and dimming of the cigar’s end was proof that he didn’t just die right there, like he wanted to. Gabe lifted his hand, and ran his fingers over the small picture frame on his desk in the corner. The two smiling faces, both beautiful girls. He sighed, frowning and wishing things were simpler, different.

 

Sooner that he’d like, the door to his office opened and the hawkish Janice Burston stood halfway in the entryway, two men behind her stepping past into the light. The single ceiling lamp swung as the bigger man, nearly twice the the size of the other, went submissively to the side. The man who made Gabe uncomfortable came forward as Janice let herself back out, shutting the door.

 

He wore a wide-brimmed hat which he removed quickly, revealing white hair and defined pitch-dark eyebrows. A neat moustache graying at the ends. A black satin suit with onyx cufflinks, his green eyes staring a hole through the editor’s head. Gabe always thought Carmine Falcone looked like a nineteen-forties photograph, all about contrasts and black and white. Parts of the Roman, like his look and his voice, were that of a heavy-voiced, aging visionary. Other parts, such as his ferocity in business and his ruthlessness towards his competition, evoked the man downstairs.

 

“Hello Gabriel,” Carmine spoke softly, a cyanide-sweet smile upon his lined face, “Have I come at a bad time?”

 

“Not at all, old friend,” Gabriel replied smoothly, offering the chair on the other side of the desk. He pushed the cigar box towards the Roman, the other man plucking one and running it beneath his nose, inhaling. Carmine stuck it between his white teeth, and Gabe flicked on his lighter for him, holding it steady.

 

Gabe pointed to the big ebony-skinned man standing in the shadows. “I’m afraid I don’t know this gentleman with you. Is he new?”

 

Carmine waved a hand as if bored. “He owes me, he’s no one of consequence. This isn’t a social visit, Gabriel, as much as I enjoy our monthly chats.”

 

“Shame it isn’t social,” Gabriel said with measured words, “And here I thought you came to give me an early birthday present. Maybe a cupcake with a candle to blow out.”

 

The Roman laughed, and if Gabe hadn’t known this man for years, he might have thought this laugh was genuine. “In that case, this is a social visit. You are aware of my recent trouble since I’ve come back to Gotham from Bludhaven?”

 

“How could I not?” Gabe pinched his cigar with two fingers and blew a little ‘o’ of smoke into the air like a gray-blue halo. “Ryder’s been breathing down my neck about covering that mess in Grant Park, and the shoot-out at Octavian Casino.”

 

“Jack Ryder is an idiot, I don’t see why you don’t let me take care of him for you.” Carmine seemed sympathetic.

 

At that, Gabe did give a chuckle. “Despite his antics, he does alright work. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I heard it was Red Hood...But I have a different lead saying that Hood was being chased by Bane earlier this week…?”

“This Red Hood does get around, I’ll give him that,” The Roman’s eyes glossed over in that very deadly way suddenly. “But he has been a thorn in my side too long. I need him gone.”

 

Gabe didn’t want to ask this question, ever, but with all that he owed Carmine and what the man sitting across from him could use against Gabe...He had to. “How can I help?”

 

“Old friend...you know that your daughter has been declining my offers of patronage.” Carmine said, searching the editor’s amber eyes. “She’s stubborn, like her mother…I offer her mansions, businesses, riches...” Gabe shifted uneasily. “After her brief work with me, I have been anxious to get her back under my payroll. But despite my best efforts, she has declined every time.”

 

Gabe wanted to tell Carmine that he wasn’t surprised, that he should've guessed his daughter's reaction when she watched Carmine shoot a man in the face five feet from her. He also wanted to tell him to shove it where the sun didn’t shine. But he had to be careful. “She is a busy girl, Carmine...too busy.”

 

“I know this,” The Roman’s eyes narrowed then. “But if she has enough time to write anonymous columns for your newspaper throwing my associate’s names in the mud, I would hope she’d know it was in her best interest to have some friends in high places.” The shoulders beneath the black satin relaxed, and the smoke he blew from his thin-lipped mouth softened the edges of his face. “She’s smart, Gabriel. Just like you, just like June.”

 

“I know,” Gabe said quietly, looking at the picture frame again. “But you know as well as I do that she loathes both of us. And you know as well as I do...why that is. What I don’t understand is what my daughter has to do with the Red Hood.”

 

Carmine stuck the cigar in his teeth, and reached inside his breast pocket, pulling out a tan, fat envelope. He set it onto the desk, then pushed it towards Gabe with his fingertips. Reluctantly, the smoke of the cigar hiding his eyes, Gabriel produced his letter opener from his righthand drawer and in a moment, the contents of the envelope lay in his hands like a broken bird.

 

As he stared at the photographs inside, he remembered an anger like the one when his wife died and against all attempts, this anger festered like a sore in his gut. He stared longer and Falcone let him, his smile widening as Gabe's frown deepened.

 

Gabe knew what card Carmine was playing here. The trump card.

 

"Deliver me the Red Hood," Carmine was saying but Gabe barely heard him. "And I will not touch a hair on your daughter's head. Fail to do so, and I will deliver you her corpse."

 

"How do you expect me to-"

 

Carmine cut him off, and Gabe's allowing him to was another testament to Carmine's control over him. "I'm not the kind to make unrealistic requests. I'll give you until her birthday. I already have made plans for an appearance...Think long, think hard."

 

"Carmine, why me?" Gabe managed to say through tight lips and tremoring hands. "Why not have your own men do this?"

 

"You saw what Red Hood did," The other man spat, his face contorting in frustration. "I don't want a pile of dead men, I want one dead man with a bat on his chest. I came to you because I knew you could get it done if I set the stakes high enough."

 

His daughter's birthday...that was...just weeks away. Gabe's head hurt. His face blank when he watched as Carmine Falcone rose from his chair, tapped hot ashes off on the photographs and squared his shoulders. "If you have any objections, Gabriel...speak now or forever hold your peace.."

 

Falcone bent over the desk, his breath stank of smoke as he blew into Gabe's face and pressed the end of his cigar into the photographs. The paper caught a low flame as he and his bodyguard left the office. A low, strangled sound came out of the proud editor's chest as he broke. Gabe, horrified at the task before him, saw the cinders consume the pictures slowly and destroy the only face on them that mattered. His daughter's.

.....................

 

**MEANWHILE - SANTA PRISCA**

 

“ _Jesuchristo,_ is she always this obnoxious?” The guard’s eyebrows rose as the singing got louder and he came closer to the man by the bars, who rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 

The second guard stretched his back uncomfortably as he stood from his stool. “I’ve been here since noon. You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

 

“Get some rest,  _compañero._ You are relieved,” He patted a hand on the tired guard’s shoulder as he passed him, taking his post and settling into the stool.

 

The prisoner, upon noticing the first changing of the guard since she’d arrived at Bane’s base, stopped midway-through her best impression of Stevie Nicks to see who the big guy had sent next to keep an eye on her. “Say, José...”

 

“That’s not my name.”

 

“I don’t really care what your name is,” Her childlike whining voice, the guard could tell, was going to get annoying really fast. “Do  _you_ know where Teddy-Bane is?”

 

The guard didn’t answer, doing his best to ignore her. He stared down at the semi-automatic he carried, pretended that the woman behind him wasn’t a mass-murdering psychopath. He pretended that she was just a dumb hostage that his boss wanted him to guard.

 

That mentality is exactly why Harley Quinn had lasted this long in the game.

 

Harley pouted in her cell, crossing her arms as she walked back over to the slab of concrete jutting out perpendicular to the wall that they intended to be her bed. She laid back on it, and then glanced over at the dead body that lay in the slab on the other side. They hadn’t taken it out because she’d threatened to dismember them with the tray the first victim had died bringing in for her that morning. She’d only been here a day, the body about twelve hours...but she was already beginning to talk to it. Not because she had no one else to talk to, but because it was more fun to talk to than Harleen.

 

 _Maybe he had a family,_  The smooth voice suggested in her head.

 

“I’ll ask him,” Harley said, before whipping off her shoe with one hand, then hurtling it at the lifeless body a few feet to her left. “Hey, buddy! You have a family?” She rolled her eyes. “See, Harleen... Don’t make a difference...Maybe he should’ve thought about that before he came in here.”

 

_You had a family before he came in here. Before him._

 

Harley twisted to face her body to the wall, and stared at the black crack in the white plaster. She bit the inside of her cheek, tugged on her pigtails to keep herself from breaking in the midst of these awful people.

 

She shook her head. "You don't get it, Harleen. I don't think you ever will. I was alone before...and I'm alone again. With no idea what's gonna happen."

 

_It's okay to be afraid, Harley._

 

At the word, at 'afraid', Harley stiffened. Harleen was starting to sound like Scarecrow. Maybe it was the whole psychiatrist, psychologist thing. She turned over again, restlessly. She felt like she was going to crawl out of her skin. Her eyes, usually bright cyan with laughter, sparkled as they found the face of the body across from her. It was frozen in an expression of shock, mouth open as if shouting and eyes glassy and wide. Harley, for a moment, seemed fascinated. Her lips parted, and she pressed her hands together beneath her head like a pillow as she was transfixed on the face of death itself.

 

She spoke again, and while all this time the guard dismissed her antics as just that of a crazy bitch, her words next chilled him right to the bone.

 

"Harleen, I'm not scared... I'm angry. I'm really,  _really_ angry."


	6. Soft Spoken with a Broken Jaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason holds three crimes to be the ultimate crimes: crimes against women, animals and especially children. 
> 
> Someone just signed his death warrant, but not before Jason learns who ordered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Soft spoken with a broken jaw  
> Step outside but not to brawl  
> Autumn's sweet we call it fall  
> I'll make it to the moon if I have to crawl and  
> With the birds I'll share  
> This lonely view."
> 
> \- Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Scar Tissue"

Anyone can look brave holding a minigun and standing in front of a group of kids. The part that made my blood boil was that the kids were hostages, and the man with the gun was threatening to blow the building from the third story window, bellowing demands down to the cops that had him surrounded on the street below. I was in the middle of a cigarette and cleaning my handguns when I got the call from Barbara that the guy had asked for the Red Hood specifically.

 

I wasn’t about to disappoint him. Not while the lives of six kids were on the line.

 

I kept low to the asphalt of the rooftop across the street from the building, peeking my eyes just high enough above the top to get a glimpse through the window he was screaming out of. I couldn’t see well enough. I tapped on my tactical vision, seeing the X-Ray image of the room. Apparently the scumbag abducted them right as they were on their way home from school, and I could see the outlines of backpacks on the kids - they had their backs to the wall, and a small heartbeat monitor displayed on my Hood...Poor kids were terrified, little hearts beating out of their chests while the man, who was almost perfectly calm, paced in front of them with the minigun.

 

I couldn't use the sniper function of my handguns, the kids were scared enough. I had to do this differently. I glanced down at the half-circle of cop cars, spotting just the man I needed. I opened my comm links, something I almost never do.

 

"O, I need Gordon's phone with scrambler."

 

_"Done, you'll be linked in ten seconds. Jason, don't k-"_

 

I ended the call. I knew what she was going to say. And I may have agreed to come home, return to what's left of the family...but I am not Batman. This guy wants to abduct a bunch of children and hold them at gunpoint for some face time with me? He deserves what is about to come to him. That cold, dark thing slipped into my stomach, the slow way it always does.

 

I heard the blip of the call being connected, and barely gave Jim the second to say 'what' in his charmingly gruff voice. "Call off your men and wait for me to come out with the hostages."

 

I watched him through a crack in the cement lip as he panned around the rooftops, looking for me.

 

" _Not a chance. If you think I'm just going to let you-"_

 

I cut him off, growing impatient. "I don't got the time to argue with you, Jim. And I'm not him, so you can shove your system up your ass. Call off your men so I can end this."

 

_"Fine. You've got ten minutes, kid. Screw this up and I'll hunt you down myself."_

 

"You gonna give the order or are you waiting for an invitation?" I terminated the link, rolling my eyes. Gordons. I stayed on my stomach, pressing myself flat to the rooftop as I faintly heard Jim calling for his officers to fall back.

 

A low rumbling overhead mirrored my restless nerves and I took a deep breath, starting counting to ten. At about four or five, I reached a hand under my leather jacket for my zip kick. The healing wound at my neck twinged at the movement, but my fingers found it anyway. At seven, I shimmied to the right and rose to my hands and knees. I whistled as loud as I could. Eight, nine...

 

Ten. The man who came to the window brought the minigun with him, glaring out to see where the noise had come from. I rose up on the balls of my feet before I flung myself over the side of the building, holding my breath as the nothingness of falling swallowed me. A flash of lightning set the sky on fire for a split second, and the thunder masked the sound as I fired the zip kick, aiming for his chest. He wore a kevlar vest, but the hook still stuck, zipping me through the air until my steel-toed boot collided with his face.

 

The minigun clattered the floor, the thug falling flat on his back and I landed, rolling to break my fall on - carpet? I had but a second to take in my surroundings: the kids huddled with red, tear-stained faces along the wall, the place empty of anything but this burgundy carpet. And then I saw the door near the corner on the opposite end of the room. The man, a wind-tanned, sputtering idiot with beady eyes, lunged for the minigun desperately and the kids screamed.

 

My whole body got hot in that split second, as I sprang at him, “Oh  _no, you don’t!”_

 

I kicked the minigun away in the baseball slide, throwing myself on the man. My fist made a cracking sound as it hit his jaw, temple, his already-swelling cheek again and again as I pinned him down with a terse hand at his neck. Bloodshot eyes, dark spots on his face - he’s addicted to cocaine. Classy. He coughed, and when I was finished rearranging his bone structure, I grabbed a fistful of his hair. I got to my feet, lifting his scalp at the roots to force him to stand with me, and led him to the door in a hurry.

 

“‘Scuse me, kids,” I said as bright as I could, despite how my blood was begging for murder, “I’m going to borrow him for a sec.”

 

As soon as I kicked the door shut behind me, I slammed the man’s head down as hard as I could on the porcelain sink of this bathroom. His skull hit with a satisfying  _ping_ , and I growled down at him, “You wanted me? Here I am.”

He heaved over, spitting out teeth before I reared a leg back and kicked his ribs in. I thought the stitches in my thigh ached at that, but to tell you the truth, I wasn’t paying attention to any pain. I was too busy kicking the guy. After the fourth kick, I snapped a silencer from my belt onto one of my handguns and crouched down, pointing it to his forehead. “Who ordered this?”

 

The man’s greasy black hair was coming out of its long ponytail, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he teetered on his knees. I cooed to him, “Oh c’mon. Look alive.” I smacked his face with the side of my gun, and moved to sit on the edge of the shower-tub. “I’m going to ask one more time:  _who ordered this?_ ”

 

“Screw you,” He muttered through the blood in his mouth, blinking and coughing. I laughed. Even though this clearly was just some run-of-the-mill mook working for someone else and calling none of his own shots, I could see that he had some guts doing this.

 

“That’s the spirit,” I said, bringing my gun across his face again. He fell to the floor, clutching his face before I stood and stepped onto his cheek, pressing down. “Patience is running thin, I’m going to need a name here.”

 

“F-F…” He panted under my heel.

 

I lifted my foot up a bit, leaning closer. “What was that?”

 

Firefly? Unlikely. Vic Fries? I thought he’d left Gotham entirely, gave it up after he got his lady back.

 

“F-Falcone.” He said, almost too quiet to hear.

 

I removed my foot from his face. “Falcone? Thought the family was in Bludhaven…”

 

“They’re back, all of them,” The man wheezed, his fingernails scratching at the tiles beside him,“Didn’t like you mucking up his casino…He wants you dead...Please, don’t kill me, my son will be three in J-”

 

“ _Don’t_ you dare,” I snarled at him viciously, reaching down to wrap my fingers around his shin. My blood pounded so hard in my head that I could barely think straight as I yanked him around, and coiled my arms around his leg. I glared down at him, and wondered how many bones I could break before I got bored. I knew it’d take a while. I contorted his leg in such a way to place pressure on the bones in his ankle, and lowered my voice to that deadly softness that had him hyperventilating.“You want to be a worthless scumbag, fine. My gun doesn’t tell the difference. But you bring kids into it, you get my special attention.” I broke the first bone, and the poor fool started crying. “Then, you tell me you have a little baby…”

 

Two more bones, and then I told myself I had to let go of his leg. I willed myself to do it. I’ve killed dozens and dozens of assholes like him, this shouldn’t be anything new. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with a broken ankle. He was just some run-of-the-mill mook. He wouldn’t be missed in Falcone’s operation, if it really was back in Gotham. Falcone’s got a thousand more.

 

I said to him, moving to the door. “You give this all up. You give it up right here and now. You get clean and leave Gotham with your son. I don’t give chances often. But if I see you here again, you bring another kid into harm’s way and I’ll make a mural with your brains.”

 

I left the bathroom and hoped that he did what came naturally to him: what he was told. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire...Six pairs of worried eyes against the wall. Here came the hard part. The idea was not to scare them further. I came closer to them, crouching down to their level. “Uh, hey...Is anybody hurt?”

 

The youngest one there, I guessed maybe eight, pointed his thumb over his little shoulder and said, his eyes wide and worried. “Dolly, she can’t move, sir.”

 

He moved aside, and behind him was a girl of about nine, holding her knees. She was rocking back and forth, the way her shoulders shook so hard...I almost wanted to march back into that bathroom and forget the chance I’d given that ape to throw him out of the window. I scanned my eyes over Dolly, over the bushy hair and the dark skin. The pink barrettes in her hair glittered as she slowly brought her face from her knees and looked up at me. She wasn’t hurt. Just scared out of her mind.

 

I reached a hand out to her, but she shrunk back from me. My chest hurt. The brand on my cheek hurt. The other kids told her not to be afraid of me, that I was here to help. That I was the Red Hood, and that I protected kids. All of it was true. But she was still afraid of me. The rain outside got louder, quiet pattering into a dull roar.

 

Until I let my hood down, and tapped the back of my tactical mask. The clasps unhooked, and the mask itself lifted up to show my face. Dolly’s eyes got bigger. I did my best impression of the patented Dick Grayson million-watt smile and tried reaching out to her again. “See? I’m just a regular guy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

She wiped at her eyes. “I want my daddy…”

 

“I’ll take you to him,” I promised, and after a moment, she got up and ran into my arms. She held onto me tight, and I stood, carrying her with one arm. I brought my tactical mask back over my face again.

 

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

 

……

About halfway down the elevator trip to the main floor, Dolly said quietly, “It really should be a ‘B’.”

 

“What?”

 

“The ‘J’ on your cheek,” Dolly said, coming away from my shoulder to look at me, “It should be a ‘B’.”

 

“Yeah? ‘B’ for what?” Kids. Seems like everyone’s comparing me to Bruce these days, and they’re starting them off young. I’m telling you, Dolly, if you say that it should be for Batman, I might forget the idea I had a minute ago to give you all money for ice cream.

 

Shutting me up immediately, Dolly said, “Brave. It should be for brave.”

 

The elevator doors opened, and I was still dazed as the kids ran for the front door of the building, police officers flooding in to secure them. The thunderstorm had let up for a moment. I carried Dolly out after them, and just as I exited the place, she squirmed in my arms. She started screaming ‘daddy’, forcing me to put her down. She ran to one of the few police officers I knew by name. Aaron Cash. But by the way he held her tight and kissed her hair, as if the broken pieces of the world had just been pushed back together...must be his. I knew he had a son, but I didn’t know he had a little girl.

 

I stayed at the door dumbly. Cash’s eyes were on me then, and he mouthed ‘thank you’. I nodded. No need to thank me. Just doing my job, Cash.

 

Tearing me away from this reunion scene was Gordon coming up to me. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his expression wry and knowing. I rolled my eyes under my mask. “What?”

 

“You pulled it off, kid.” He said, leveling his gaze with mine and offering me his outstretched hand, “I was wrong. I doubted you. I keep doubting you when I know I shouldn’t anymore.”

 

I stared at him for a long time. I reached into my inner jacket pocket for the emergency money I usually spent on midnight patrol cravings. I grabbed Jim’s hand and put forty bucks in it. “Get the kids some ice cream.”

 

Gordon chuckled, his ginger moustache spread as he grinned at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look more heroic.”

 

I turned away from him, grabbing my grapple gun from my belt. My voice flat, I said over my shoulder, “The cocaine addict’s on the third floor with a broken ankle, some broken ribs and missing a few teeth…” I fired the grappler gun at a rooftop above us.

 

Screw off, Gordon.


	7. Say Goodbye to Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason knows the name now, and he knows there's only one woman in Gotham that can give him all the tools he needs to bring Falcone down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hand of fate is moving and the finger points to you
> 
> He knocks you to your feet and so what are you gonna do
> 
> Your tongue has frozen now you've got something to say
> 
> The piper at the gates of dawn is calling you his way
> 
> You watch the world exploding every single night
> 
> Dancing in the sun a newborn in the light
> 
> Say goodbye to gravity and say goodbye to death
> 
> Hello to eternity and live for every breath”
> 
> Iron Maiden, “The Wicker Man”

 

**ORACLE’S CLOCK TOWER - MIDNIGHT**

Some criminals blackmail their adversaries with business. Guys like the Penguin can make a rich man flat broke with a single deal. Some do it the old-fashioned way. Two-Face can rob a bank blind so fast, they’ll see double for weeks. Knowing him, he’d have it no other way. When I was Arkham Knight, going to the crook conventions with Scarecrow was no better way to see the enemy up close. My enemy. My mission. My targets.

But when you use these skills on your friends, it’s best to do it in plain sight. With simplicity, above all. Push your pawn forward on the board first, and not second. The best defense is a good offense. I learned this from the best. My weapon of choice? Funny you should ask.

I stood the dinner stand beside her with one hand, and with the other, set down the bowl with the cookie dough ice cream sundae. Barbara’s sky blue eyes went from me to the ice cream slowly, her hands withdrawing from the keyboard. The screens on all sides of her were nearly forgotten as she looked from me to the bowl, shifting the ice cream around with her spoon at first. She pursed her lips.

“Okay, Jason. What do you need?”

“What?” I asked in mock hurt, putting a hand over my heart as if offended. “I can’t make a sundae for my favorite girl?”

“You put chocolate on it.” There was no hiding from her, was there? And that’s why she’s the best of us. “And bananas.”

“Sue me.” I shrugged off my leather jacket, and grabbed one of the fold-up chairs she kept by the lift. Sitting beside her, I threw my jacket over the back of it and got comfy. “I admit it. There is some bribery involved.”

“And the truth comes out,” Barbara joked, before scooped her first spoonful into her mouth. “Well? What do you need? Before I finish devouring your blackmail.”

I smoothed out the creases on my jeans, feeling the calluses on the heels of my hands. I leaned forward, my forearms pressed against my knees. I prefaced with the crucial part of this transaction, “None of this goes to Dick or your lover Boy Wonder.”

“Tim,” She corrected, as she had done many times.

The lady doth protest, and all that. I’ve seen the way they steal glances at each other when they think no one can see them. Barbara explained it to me that they had put the mission before what they felt. I made the point that the mission doesn’t mean you ignore any chance at a normal life that comes your way. Sure, I know; that was great advice coming from someone who needed to take it to heart himself.

“I need everything you know about Carmine Falcone and his operation, including a list of known affiliates.” I gauged her face as I spoke, and she maintained that cool calm. She heaped more ice cream onto her spoon with one hand and used the other to dedicate the screen to her left to my request. I saw her pull up the list from the BatComputer database, a visual of Carmine and many others I recognized next to certain names from the list.

His son Alberto, his daughters Kitrina and Sofia...there was an asterisk beside a third slot with Selina Kyle written next to it. Catwoman was illegitimate, maybe? I ignored that and moved down the list. I stood up, studying it. There was Sherman Fine. Scarecrow had gotten the materials he needed from Falcone to perfect his toxin through a Sherman Fine, codename The Broker. And then there was Calendar Man...

“Mind if I ask why you need info on Falcone?” She sounded worried.

I crossed my arms, squinting at the list. “Don’t. Not until I know what’s going on.”

“Would this have anything to do with that hostage situation today?”

“It does,” I said sternly over my shoulder, “But I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

Her hand was on the back of my elbow, urgent and warm. Her voice was soft, gentle. Cautious. “Jason, I hate to bring this up, but those were your exact words before you ran off after Joker…And I refuse to stand by while you jump into danger twice without telling anyone. Let me help you.”

My gut clenched and I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. I squeezed my eyes shut. I should be telling her everything. She was perhaps the only person left in Gotham who has a clue about how I felt, my pain, my rage. I was about to pry apart my teeth to say something - anything. A comforting few words that I wasn’t like that anymore, that I knew what I was doing now. But I knew it was only a half-truth. I had my bad days and touchy subjects. We all did. I was about to tell her when a beeping alerted to a comm signal coming in. Her hand left my arm. I didn’t turn around. I knew who it was.

“ _Oracle, need you to get an officer over to Chinatown. On the front steps of the bank. There’s a present there awaiting jail time.”_

“You got it, Tim,” Barbara’s voice held a smile in it.

“ _Who’s that behind you?”_

“Oh, Jason stopped by,” She said, and I felt her eyes on my back. I waved a hand, keeping my eyes locked onto the list on the screen in front of me.

“ _Barbara.”_ The single word had a note of scolding into it. Like Barbara had been stupid to let me in.

“To be honest with you, Robin,” I crammed as much sarcasm into my voice as possible. “Kidnapping Barbara is really ‘been there, done that’ at this point. Besides, she pepper-sprayed the driver and wrecked the car last time I tried so I’m over it.”

“ _That’s not what I-”_

Barbara cut him off as a notification showed up on the top right corner of my screen. I watched her cursor pull it to the display in front of her, out of my view. “Hold on - there’s a distress call over police radio near your location, Tim. In the Cauldron.” I heard her tapping on the screen behind me. “The security cameras are showing a group of eleven thugs wearing Penguin’s insignia closing in on Detective Bullock. He’s pinned down, hurry.”

“ _On it. Be careful._ ”

“ _You_ be careful,” I said, before the comm link shut off. I turned around, seeing Barbara’s glare and the half-eaten bowl of ice cream on the stand.

“He’s trying, you know,” She pointed out, “Not everyone is as understanding as Dick or me. To him...he sees you as the bad guy still. When Bruce and Tim thought I was dead...while Bruce held Scarecrow responsible, Tim held you responsible…”

“Barb, I hated what I did to you,” I lowered my voice so it wouldn’t crack. The guilt twisted my stomach as I spoke. “Above everything I did six months ago...doing what I could to try to kill Bruce, sieging Gotham, holding your dad hostage...Above all, I hated what I did to you. Because you didn’t deserve one bit of it.” I sat back down next to her, stared her hard in the eye. “And I know that when I showed myself to you back in that compound...and while I was yelling at you...You were only trying to help me.”

“Jason, I told you,” She brought a hand to my face, directing my gaze to hers, offered me a smile. She ran her thumb over my cheekbone, over the brand but didn’t pay it any attention. Like it didn’t matter and that meant the world to me. “I forgave you. Crane could have done anything to me...but you protected me in there. You guarded me.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. Here she was. After I did everything I could have possibly done wrong to her, here she was. She’s the closest thing to a best friend or a sister I had. I’ll always guard you, Barb. “As if you needed protection."

She laughed. "There are some obstacles that I will always need help with, Jay. Like stairs."

"I'll carry you, no problem."

Barbara looked at the floor for a couple of seconds and then said as if she were proposing a business deal, "Listen...if you won't tell me about Falcone yet, I'd like to ask about something else."

"Like what?" I asked, and I eyed her warily.

"The girl who took you in. The one that doesn't exist on records." She said, measuring every word. "Tell me about her."

She didn't talk about it like it was a bad thing, something which Tim had spent nearly every conversation with me trying to prove. But still, when I let my thoughts drift, they went to what Abigail said.  _How much longer can a person live disguising loneliness with cruelty?_ Sometimes I couldn’t tell which I felt more, angry or lonely.

"What's to tell?" I replied, staring down at my hands as they picked at the scars on each other. "Educated, practical, decent taste in music...She did something I'm not sure I would've done in her position."

"There's that..." Barbara said pensively, pushing her bowl to me to finish, "Did she say why she saved you?"

"Yeah, she said it was because she agreed with me. She believed in me." I dug into the bowl, and did my best to keep my thoughts in the present. To talk about the past and not relive it. "She said she had reasons for that, but didn't tell me."

"Lots of people have reasons for wanting criminals to face justice. But there's a line between justice and revenge." Barbara sounded sad and I glanced to her, catching her blue eye. "I've got mine, you've got yours. But I like to think we've both learned to get past revenge."

Six months ago I would've told her to speak for herself. But some part of me is glad that's over. All that anger felt like flickering between fire and pain.

"Abigail Byron," She said, and hearing that name made the healing gash in my neck itch. “You know, you told me you weren’t going to see her again...But maybe when we learn something about where that card came from...The Joker card, I mean.”

“Barbara.” My tone was a warning.

“It’s just a suggestion. I know you don’t plan to see her again, and I know you think you’d put her in danger if you did.” She paused, taking a deep breath before she continued, “...but it’s the same thing as when I met Batman. Bruce knew I’d be in danger if I helped him, but that was a risk I wanted to take because I understood the mission. It’s the mission my dad fought for. It’s the mission that I’ve fought for all my life, even when I didn’t know it. And from what she said to you, Jason,” The typing beside me stopped, and I looked at her. “I think she just might understand.”  

If she kept this up, she might almost be as good at lecturing me as Bruce and Alfred. But I appreciated her doing it. If anyone, I’d rather it be Babs. She had a point, though. I didn’t want to say so, but she had a point. I finished off the ice cream, commenting lightly, “You know, I thought you’d be first in line to tell me to stay away from her. A girl who doesn’t exist throws up a lot of red flags.”

“And I thought you’d be first in line to tell me to forget about Tim,” She bantered, taking her glasses off and cleaning them with the edge of her Twisted Sister t-shirt I knew she got from Tim.

“Pfft,” A release of nervous energy and air through my lips. “I’m not  _blind_ , Barb. He may be a holier-than-thou, irritating little shit, but you deserve someone who’ll be good to you. Tim’s good to you. So I won’t have to get medieval on him for that, at least.” I got up from my seat, stretching out my arms and yawning. “What time is it?”

“Nearly one-thirty.” She replied, “I’ll let you know if Robin needs help. And Jason?”

“Yeah?” I had one arm in my jacket.

“Think about what I said, alright? The info on Falcone’s been sent to your computer.”

I yawned again; probably going to need two cups of coffee when I got back to my safehouse. I scratched the nape of my neck on my way to the lift, standing to face her once inside. She peered over her shoulder at me. “Be careful.”

I shot her a salute and a grin that I’d used on several occasions while choking out a two-bit thug. “Time to punch in.”

………………………….

Abigail Byron slammed the door behind him so hard that the glass on the cabinets rattled, a noise of pure frustration escaping her. She rested her forehead against the cool door, and focused on her breathing. But a raw pool of rage bubbled in her stomach and she found herself hyperventilating again before long. Her face was red, and her throat was hoarse from shouting. She stared down at the gun in her hand, and then hurried to her bookshelf. Shoving the gun back on top of the books on her lowest row, her chest heaved up and down in exasperation and fear of what she had just done.

“Damn you, damn you,  _damn you,_ ” She ranted, storming to her purse where it hung on the coatrack by the door. She jammed her hand inside and pulled out her inhaler. While she shook it like she was wringing a neck, she exhaled as steadily as she could, but still had a few hitches. She administered the treatment, breathing in sharply as it sprayed. She held her breath, but hot tears threatened at her eyes. Abigail couldn’t remember the last time she had been this riled up, this angry, this outright offended.

How dare he come here and make demands of her? Had he not taken enough the first time he’d screwed her over? Or the second? Or how about the third? She should be the person he spent the rest of his life making everything up to, the person he held onto, not the one he blackmailed because he had a wishbone where his backbone should be.

She took the inhaler with her, going into the guest bedroom of her apartment that she’d remodeled into a library. It was an expansion of the collection of books, vinyl records and graphic novels she had in the sitting room, and it was her pride and joy. This place, more than any other, would be where she was most likely to calm down.

Plucking the book she needed from the shelf closest to the door, Abigail collapsed onto the armchair, her legs thrown over one arm and her back against the other arm. She pushed her bangs out of her face, and held the beat-up copy of  _Alice in Wonderland_ to her heart. This particular book was the one her mother taught her to read with. She fixed the torn bindings herself with duct tape and both covers had been reinforced with craft paper, the title re-written several times on the front where it had rubbed off. When she thought about safety, about the concept of home - she thought of this book. Because it was all she had left of her mother.

“Mom, I need your help,” She said to the book, closing her eyes and imagining her mother’s reassuring smile, a mirror of it on her golden G.C.P.D. badge. How her mom’s hand always twitched towards the gun at her hip whenever she saw her daughter cry, ever the guardian of her family. “He came by again today...asked for me to hand him someone I saved. I did a good thing for someone, and he wants me to betray that someone so I’ll be safe.”

Abigail curled up into a ball in the chair. “I pulled a gun on him, Mom. I pulled  _your gun_ on him. And I’m not sorry. Why am I not sorry…? Because I couldn’t save you and he’s one of the three people I could kill to make myself feel better about it?” She clutched the book even tighter, as if it were a conduit to the grave she still drove to on Sundays. “The sad part is I’m related to two of those people. How’s that for cruel irony, huh Mom?”

She was calming down now, which was a sign that this was exactly what she needed. Talking to nobody in her apartment always calmed her down, though Abigail often mused about what that said about her mental state. “I study morality, and there isn’t any in this situation. None whatsoever. How do you keep a clear conscience when there’s filth around every corner? What do I do, Mom?” She sighed, allowing the first tear to fall but no more. “If I do as he asks, I rob this city of a justice it hasn’t seen since Batman. A justice it desperately needs...And if I don’t...I risk death at the hands of the man who took you away from me.”

Abigail loosened her grip on the book and her fingertips ached. “Even if the guy I saved was rude to me, I am no executioner. I could not live with myself...But how do you hide from the Devil once you spit in his face?”

“Mom, do you remember that rhyme you taught me when I was nine? The one with the days of the week and where all of the days had brightness except for Wednesday?” Her lips spread in a little smile, the scar on her lower lip held taut. “ _Wednesday’s child is full of woe_ . You always told me it was because Wednesday was the most difficult, that Wednesday had challenges to overcome. You always told me I should try to meet those kinds of challenges head-on, and do what I think is right, no matter what.”

Abigail set her jaw, and maneuvered out of the chair, standing once again. She gazed out of the open window, towards Wayne Tower. She had done this many times. “You told me that if I should place my faith in anything, it should be in the people that do protect this city even with all of its sins. Whether or not they are on the right side of the law.” A gust of wind came through the curtains right in her face. She didn’t know if it was some sort of sign, but she could allow herself some hope now and then. “I know, Mom. I know.”

A silence filled the room. She knew that what she was doing was either really brave or really stupid. But she knew it was just. Her studies had proven to her what her mother had always said: that no matter how high the stakes are, you must do what is right because it is right. Not because you’ll be loved for it. She smiled sadly.

“At least with this, the only one who can get hurt is me.”


	8. Hangman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's afforded a quick moment of peace in his safe house, an abandoned fire station he's transformed into something live-able. But the peace almost never lasts, so he must enjoy it while he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh mama, I been years on the lam,
> 
> And had high price on my head
> 
> Lawman said, "Get 'em dead or alive!"
> 
> Now it's for sure he'll see me dead
> 
> Dear mama, I can hear you a-cryin'
> 
> You're so scared and all alone
> 
> Hangman is comin' down from the gallows
> 
> And I don't have very long”
> 
> Styx, “Renegade”

Nicotine was lighting the fire at the end of my nerves when I got back to the safehouse at the end of my “shift”, crawling through the office room window and shutting the rain out when I closed it. I was soaked to the skin, jumpy and I felt the aching deep in my bones from being on the move without sleep for fifty-two hours straight. I needed sleep in the worst way, but until Gotham could go five minutes without someone putting somebody else in danger, that wasn’t getting done for the past couple of days. Did I sound bitter? Good. It’s because I was.

My tactical mask came off first, and was tossed onto the couch across from the TV. Then I shrugged out of the jacket with sore shoulders, threw it over the heat vent on the floor to air out and dry. I trudged to my desk on the opposite end of the room, whipped off my glove to check to see if I’d received Oracle’s data transfer for Falcone. I had. I checked the time,  **8:17 A.M.** I wrote down the number of hours it’d been since I last had a smoke on the notepad stuck to the wall with a throwing knife. Twenty-two, a new record.

I worked the wet and heavy kevlar vest from me, throwing them down in a heap on another heat vent by my desk. I kicked off my boots by my desk, leaving the room barefoot and heading to the fireman’s poles in this dorm. I slid down one, my feet hitting the cold linoleum of the station’s kitchen. When I’d first found this building, an abandoned fire station in Old Gotham, the walls of Arkham City were being lifted and the slums and streets were mixing again. The residential areas and business were taken up again, so it was easy for me to slide in here and buy the place. The weapons business was good and I still had two-hundred tanks of various classes stocked up in Venezuela. I sold them all and even after I bought this station, I had hundreds of thousands of dollars saved up for a rainy day. Or a firefight. Or a war. Any of those.

I snatched the pack of cigarettes on the table. The rest of the space was covered in gun cleaning supplies and handguns in different stages of being torn apart. A few knives here, a box of bullets there, and you had my workspace in a shotgun shell. I pulled out a smoke and stuck it between my teeth. I was about to light it with the Rolling Stones Zippo lighter Dick got me a few weeks ago but when I flicked it, only sparks came out. It’s waterlogged. I grunted in annoyance, and I tossed it into the garbage can, swearing at it as I went. “Never liked the Stones anyway…”

I drew back the counter drawer to the right of my gas stove and picked a random lighter out of the cluttered sea of them in there. I lit my cigarette and moved on, the nicotine withdrawal dousing as I breathed in the smoke. I caught a glance down at my wife beater and saw a crimson line near the edge on my stomach. I rose an eyebrow, lifting up the material.  Not my blood.

Maybe it was that one Penguin guy whose throat I slit. It did make a decent spray of blood. Then again, there was the guy that Tim shoved over my way so I could take him out with a shot to the face. Wait. What about the mook that nearly knocked me over and was bleeding out from his torso. But he ran into my back, which was covered with my jacket. So I could probably rule him out. I shot a lot of guys in Penguin’s VIP room tonight, could’ve been any of them and I spent most of that time laughing my ass off. Eh. I’ll stick to the problems I can figure out.

Another perk to this station? I had somewhere to put my baby. I came out of the kitchen and went to the fire engine maintenance bay, where the last Cobra tank sat. Since the Batmobile was now lying in pieces in Lucius Fox’s workshop, the only thing that could stop this tank was out of commission. I hadn’t had a chance to use her yet, mostly because a tank roaming around Gotham on a joyride would attract more than a little attention. But I was still in love with her. Her codename over radio with the family was The Missus. As in “Hold on, Robin. Let me grab The Missus and we’ll join you for dinner at Dent’s.” I proudly patted the side of the crawler belts, heading to the stairs to get back up to my office.

I sunk down into a chair at my desk again and pinched my cigarette between my fingers, opening the file Oracle had sent me. The white streak in my black hair hung in my eyes no matter how I twitched my head, so I licked my fingers and slicked it straight back.

Alright, up until six months ago, Carmine “the Roman” Falcone and the rest of his family had been in Bludhaven for years after being threatened by the Penguin and other villains usurping his turf. He’d maintained a foothold in Blud, making use of the old whaling ports for all kinds of sea goods and, of course, more criminal pursuits on the side. What is screwing with me is why in the hell Falcone would return to Gotham  _now_ if there was even a whisper of the Joker on the horizon? He’s not an idiot, he wouldn’t risk his family if there wasn’t some kind of safeguard, some promise. Then again, there’s the reason he left Gotham in the first place. Penguin’s a master tradesman, he’ll survive financially no matter what was thrown his way. But he won’t be too happy to hear Falcone’s back in town. That is, if someone hasn’t informed him already.

Either way, there’s going to be a storm coming. Between Penguin and Falcone or Gotham and the Joker, if he was back...or both. Even after all this time, thinking about Joker made my skin crawl and my brand sting on my face. If he was back...and this wasn’t just some sick joke, I will hunt him down and tear him apart. I won’t rest. I won’t relent. I won’t stop until he’s mine and it’s me who burns a ‘J’ into his face. Monkey see...monkey do. And monkey will do away with you.

I clicked away from the map of Bludhaven, and brought up the list again. Something about this didn’t make any sense. I inhaled another lungful of cigarette smoke, narrowing my eyes at the affiliate section. Gabriel Winters is one of Falcone’s last known associates, editor of the  _Gazette_. I clicked on his name and it brought up the digitized news clipping of his wife Juniper’s obituary. Said here that Winters often accepted bribes from the Falcones in exchange for publicity for their philanthropic efforts. More or less to cover up the endless stream of mob violence and dumped bodies in Gotham Harbor. I marked his name. I went through the pictures Oracle collected on Winters, bringing up a picture of what I guessed was a young Juniper, Gabriel and a baby swaddled and held away from the camera. Looks like he had something to lose...and something Falcone could threaten to make Gabe cooperate. Maybe blackmail? Falcone could have had something held over Gabriel’s head. I wrote down his name and circled it.

There was also the Calendar Man, Julian Gregory Day. After Arkham City shut down, crazies like Day went to the only available asylum that would take them: Belle Reve. I could have Oracle keep an eye on him. If anyone took him from Belle Reve and headed to Gotham, he’s the guy I’m going after to clear the air. Then again, Day’s connection to Falcone was decades old. If there was anyone on this list that I could probably rule out to being the man I needed to see, it’d be him.

For now, I’d focus on Gabriel. I’ve got my work for tomorrow.

I set the computer to sleep and got up, stretching out my scarred arms. I held the cigarette in my lips, striding to the dresser I made out of a couple of weapons chests in the corner of my office. I tugged my wife beater off and switched my armored cargo pants for a pair of gray sweats. I glanced over at my hammock . Thing is, this station was never meant to be both the home and headquarters of a stunningly handsome vigilante like myself. So no bed. I improvised with the hammock.

I carefully lowered myself in, wrapping the material around my upper body and draping a leg over one side. I rocked myself with that foot, toes against the cool wall and smoked for a little while. I gazed out the window by the hook of my hammock, out to Gotham. The sun was starting to peek around the skyscrapers, turning the blue into yellow at the edges and shining across the glass panes of the buildings. Sunshine. In my line of work, I don't see it too often. The corner of my mouth pricked up, and sat up slowly so I wouldn't tip myself over. I stuck my smoke in the ashtray on the windowsill, and sighed, laying back down.

I tucked my arm underneath the small of my back, and my fingers found the familiar grip of my gun. I let my eyes grow heavy and close, but the light reddened my eyelids, so I threw my free arm over my face.

My last thought before drifting to unconsciousness is how routine this had become. Wake up, save lives, deal with criminals, question whose blood is on your clothes, get to sleep at dawn. I got to fight the good fight and do it my way.

I hoped that it would never change.


	9. There's A Wolf Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Hood is keeping a close eye on Falcone's associates, and Gabriel Winters is the first on his list of places to watch tonight. And, as per usual with him, Jason's plans don't go...well...according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You've been hiding out
> 
> For quite a while now,
> 
> Living off of people you know
> 
> Trying to raise a little money
> 
> To pay off all the monkeys
> 
> That you met inside the
> 
> Rabbit hole
> 
> You're taking candy from the white witch
> 
> You're smoking tea with Mama Kin
> 
> Well, there's a wolf outside
> 
> A brick house screaming;
> 
> "This time I'm gonna blow it in!"”
> 
> Shinedown, “Cry for Help”

 

The second I stepped onto that rooftop, I knew it looked familiar. It was warmer now than the last time I was here, but the view was the same. Wayne Tower loomed over everything else in the distance like some kind of skyscraper lifeguard, waiting to pull the other buildings up out of the danger of the alleyways. I put away my grapple gun, walked to the edge and sat down. I ignored the deja vu as best I could, but I could somehow still hear Bruce in my ear.

_“Here, drink this. It’ll warm you up._ ”

I remembered glancing at the thermos of cocoa out of the corner of my eye and scowling, saying that a little cold never stopped me before and it wasn’t going to happen now. I’d switched out the green tights for insulated spandex like the material he had in his batsuit that night, but the improvement was so minute it might as well be nonexistent. He held it out like he hadn’t heard me. That classic Wayne stubbornness in full force that had often annoyed me. Part of me, at that time...was still trying to earn the ‘R’ on my chest, measuring myself up to Dick Grayson for the millionth time. I couldn’t look like I wasn’t up to this, not then. Then, I was scared half to death that if I wasn’t a good Robin, Bruce would kick me out on the streets again. Then, I needed his approval like I needed oxygen, food, and cigarettes. It was just a thermos of hot cocoa.

But, half because I knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer and half because I was freezing my ass off, I took it anyways. I remembered how the warmth as it went down my throat radiated outwards and made every part of my seventeen-year-old self feel invincible. It made me feel like nothing, not this storm or anyone, could stop me. Joke was on me, I guess.

We’d been there for the same reason I returned now: to do a stakeout on the Gotham Gazette. Then, we’d been watching over Vicki Vale after a threat had been made on her life by the Joker. Now, I was about to pay the editor a little visit. I remembered the argument I’d had with Bruce afterwards when I suggested, not for the first time, that we save Gotham of more suffering by ending the trail of torture and murder that the clown dealt out to others.

Basically, I told Batman to sack up and kill the Joker.

He told me, not for the first time, that he can never do that because he would be a part of the same evil that killed his parents if he did. ‘The same as the Joker’, were his exact words. Losing my temper, I had accused him of being stupidly selfish. I regretted that a bit, but what can I say? I was frustrated and tired of the routine of catching Joker and stopping Joker. Send him to the Asylum, wait ever so patiently for him to break out again...and I threatened to do it myself if Bruce wouldn’t. Crime had taken my family too, but unlike him, I was going to do something about it that didn’t perpetuate the whole thing.

So I tried to kill the Joker three weeks after that last argument in the BatCave. The rest you know...sometimes, people thought they knew my story better than I did and liked to point it out any way they could. People like Tim Drake did that.

“ _RH, come in.”_

What’s that saying about speaking of the Devil? I groaned. “This is Hood. What do you want?”

“ _Check in, what’s your 20?”_ You know, even when I was Robin I never cared for talking like cops.

“On the border between Chinatown,” I didn’t like this kid, “And none of your damned business.”

Tim was unfazed and sounded bored.“ _So you’re in Chinatown. Fine.”_

I terminated the comm link, almost immediately glad that I wasn’t really in Chinatown but on another island entirely. And he’s supposed to be the master detective. Sure he is.

I zoomed my tactical hood’s display on the top three floors of the  _Gazette_ building, and switched on the skeletal display. There was almost no one in that section, except for two in the top floor. That’s likely where Gabriel Winters’ office was. One sitting as calmly as can be, one standing and looking rather agitated. Leaving the display on, I walked to the edge. I sucked in a huge lungful of cool, post-rain Gotham air through the vents in my hood, and let myself fall. I only kept my eyes closed for a second. My hand dove at my belt, at my grapple gun and I fired it onto the roof of the skyscraper without thinking. I hit the brake mechanism a little too late, and I accelerated higher, shooting myself a good ten feet higher than I wanted. Didn’t matter. I landed on the balls of my feet, and as I laid flush to the asphalt, I could catch their conversation through my communications.

“Read my lips, Ms. Vale: Bruce Wayne is dead. Find something else _,”_  The man’s voice was flat and steady, “Or you’re fired.”

Ouch, that was a little harsh. I heard the clicking of Vicki’s heels as she stormed out of the room, the _bang_  of the door slam. I watched her skeleton leave his office, and head for what I assumed to be the elevator. Once she started her way down, I seized my moment. I dug the hook of the grapple gun into the asphalt, and threw my legs over the lip of the building, lowering myself down. Like a rock climber, I pushed myself away to allow more slack and before my feet broke the glass to Gabe’s office, I thought about how long it’d take to get  all the glass out of my pants when I got home. This wasn’t about being subtle. It was about making a point.

I rolled as soon as I touched the ground, drawing a handgun and when I came to a crouch, trained it on Gabriel Winters. I stood and sized him up. He was shorter than the picture; his hair and eyelashes dark against his light eyes. His mouth was half-open in surprise and his chest labored as he stared down the barrel of my gun. I’d startled him.

I grinned; Alfred always scolded me about playing with my food.

To his credit, he wasn’t trembling at all, but he kept looking at a picture frame laid face-down on his desk. “If this is about the article I passed last week, I assure you that-

“Can it, scum. Carmine Falcone wants my head on a stick. And you wanna know what I think?” I crossed the room before he had time to flinch, holding a fistful of his button-down and jamming my gun into the junction of his jaw and his throat. I loved the expression on some men’s faces when they twitch with fear. “I think you know why. Here’s how to play the game: you’ve got three seconds to talk or I start redecorating.”

Gabriel squirmed in my grip, away from my gun but I choked him tighter. “Three.”

“I haven’t spoken with Falcone in years-”

I whipped the butt of my gun across his face, tearing the skin above his right eyebrow. I hated liars. “Two.”

“ _Alright! Alright!”_ He wailed, and his hyperventilation got worse. He began to wheeze like an asthmatic, and I loosened my grip just enough for him to talk. Blood ran over his eye, and he wiped at it desperately as he spoke. “C-Carmine visited me earlier this week, told me that I had to deliver you to him. I hired the idiot to make a scene yesterday. But I didn’t tell him to use children, I swear to God.” He struggled for air still, but I had a feeling he wasn’t telling me the whole story.

"I suppose that butters it up, don't it?" I headbutted him, cutting his wound wider and snarled in his face. "Wrong! What did Falcone use against you? You’re the editor of the  _Gotham Gazette,_ did he threaten your job? I know he owns the paper. C'mon, everybody’s got a pressure point - where’s yours?”

He stared at me, the blood covering the whole side of his face in a veil of crimson. His eyes flickered with something like regret. “My daughter. He threatened to kill my daughter. She despises me, but I won’t let her die for my cowardice. Doesn’t matter now, talking with you right now is reason enough for Carmine to kill her.”

There was the  _ding_ of the elevator. I didn’t have much time. I tightened my grip on Gabe and lowered my voice. “Speak quickly: I know Falcone wouldn’t come back if he didn’t have insurance against Joker. Who’s doing this?!  _Now,_ ”

“I don’t know, I promise,” Gabe rasped, clawing at my forearm. “All I know is that Carmine wants you dead and he’ll kill anyone he wants just to get to you!”

“ _For what?_ ” My head was starting to hurt with the anxiety as I heard the footsteps outside get heavier and louder.

There was a knocking on the door of the office then, and I could see the outline of a man against the lights in the newsroom outside. Two more faded outlines behind him, but the voice came from the visitor. “Gabriel? Gabriel, it’s Carmine. Is everything alright?”

Every nerve in my body lit up like a match and I kept glancing to the broken window. If I wanted to make it out of here, I’d have to jump back through there. I knew what I had to do; I popped out the mag in my handgun and loaded another from my belt that was full of tracker bullets. The door was starting to open and my time was up. I brought my gun from his throat and aimed for the silhouette’s chest where his collarbone was. I needed Falcone alive for a bit longer. I fired, the sound blowing the silence to smithereens. I heard the door thrown open and the cocking of guns on the other side. I dove to the ground by the window, taking Gabe with me and rolled to my back, kicking up at the edge of the desk - it flipped over onto the side, shielding us from the bullets being fired from the guys at the door.

I spun around, and spread my hands out against the underside of the desk. I dug in my heels and pushed, a roar blaring out of my throat; I plowed the desk into the two bodyguards at the door, stunning them for a second. “Worthless sons’a bitches- whoa, hello!” I saw a flash of gunmetal and ducked under a bullet that whizzed over my head.

“I’ll kill you, Hood!" Falcone was on his feet, bracing himself against another desk in the newsroom with a pistol in his hand. A streak of crimson was lazy-rivering over his white suit, his eyes wild and he was cursing in Italian. I smashed the two bodyguards’ heads together as he tried to shoot me again, this time hitting his men.

“Is that it?” I said behind the desk while I pulled out my neck tactical knife, fitting my fingers in the grip. I didn’t like to use it, but I wanted to send a little message to Falcone that words just can’t say. “Just two guys? That’s just insulting.”

Falcone staggered towards the makeshift barricade I was behind, so I sprang. I got my free hand on his collar and his tie, yanking him over to me. I forced his chest to the ground with my knee and pinned him with a hand to his throat in a vice grip. With the blade in my other hand, I stabbed into Carmine’s grass-green eye, but not deep enough to kill - as much as I wanted to. I carved, I dug, I drove the blade around the socket, the squishing noise barely nauseating me and Falcone’s screams were better than any orchestra you can put in front of me. The blood made my vision redder, as red as red could be. I withdrew my blade, his eye coming with it and dangling from his eye to his head was a red strand of tissue.

“You know what your problem is, old man?” I lifted his neck and brought it close. He growled in his throat at the pain and I twirled the knife through my fingers, his eye still stuck on the tip. “You’re overconfident. You have a problem with someone, you hire someone else and have them do the dirty work. I’ve already figured this out in one night and you’ve had what - twenty years? You want something done right? Do it yourself. Bottom line: you didn’t keep an eye on me. And now…” I wagged his eye in front of him. “Now I’m keeping an eye on you.”

His hands kept fidgeting towards the opening in his coat, and I used my other foot to trample his fingers away from his chest. I searched his inner pocket, the only one on his coat. Inside was a single photograph, and my heart stopped when I looked at it, my throat choking tight.

As I saw the picture, all my sinister demeanor evaporated into thin air. I was in the picture, along with a large black guy. He was carrying me. This was last week, when I was stabbed in the leg. Her face was only half-hidden by a mane of golden hair as she was depicted walking ahead. Oh, no...Falcone was after Abigail, too. For helping me. I needed to find her. Gabe can fall out of this skyscraper for all I care. He endangered the lives of children to get my attention. But Abigail…

I was about to shout at Carmine to tell me why he’s gunning for her, but as I glanced back, he was unconscious. Blood loss. Good. I straightened, taking the photo with me and shoving it into my jacket pocket, zipping it closed. I heard the elevator ringing again, and I wasn’t about to find out if Falcone’s cavalry was coming. I darted back to the broken window and jumped.


	10. Everything That I've Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's stunt doesn't earn him any points with the remnants of the BatFamily that's left, and the friction between Red Hood and Robin is palpable...just as Jason learns that someone who helped him may be dragged into his firefight with Falcone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I want to be a good man, I want to see God
> 
> I want to be faithful but I know that I’m not
> 
> I want to be a good man, I want to do right
> 
> I don’t wanna be a criminal for the rest of my life
> 
> Everything that I've done before
> 
> Has brought me back down to my knees
> 
> I’m crying out to you, Lord
> 
> It’s getting harder and harder to see
> 
> If there’s good left in me?”
> 
> Devour the Day, “Good Man”

 

“Wait, don’t say anything,” I said as soon as I landed into the Clock Tower through the roof and saw three pairs of eyes look back at me. “Lemme guess. ‘Jason, you’re too much trouble’? ‘Jason, that was stupid and now we’re all dead because you can’t control yourself’? No, no - wait. I’ve got it. ‘Jason, march up to your room, young man and go to bed without dinner.’”

 

Tim and Dick were still in uniform, masks and all. Barb had a muted news channel feed running on the screen in front of her, and the headline read:  **Falcone Attacked by Red Hood, Claims It as a Personal Attack**. Carmine’s really milking it, isn’t he? Tim was glaring at me the hardest, the blue screens shining off his bald head. Dick had his arms crossed and he was biting his lip; he’s always difficult to read in times like this. I didn’t know if he was angry or proud, though I seriously doubted the latter. Barbara looked at me the way Bruce used to when I’d been too rough, relished a bit too much in the pain of criminals. But hers were different in one fundamental way: where Bruce’s always held disappointment, she seemed somewhat pleased.

 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Tim was really trying to reel himself in, I could tell. He shouldn’t waste his energy. I’ll be the one snapping and wringing his neck before he wrings mine. “Crime was in decline, and now you’ve stirred it up again.”

 

“Decline?” I repeated, incredulous. “Open your eyes. Firefights, high-speed chases, kidnappings, a hostage situation yesterday, extortion left and right and you think this is decline? Falcone was going to endanger anyone to get to me. All I did was made sure he  _focused_ on me instead of throwing innocents in the line of fire for my attention.”

 

Dick rose an eyebrow. “By taking out his eye?”

 

“Can you think of a better way to do it?” I asked rhetorically, before turning to Barb, “I need the location of the phone you called to find me a week ago.”

 

She sounded surprised. “You’re going to see Abigail again?”

 

“She’s in danger,” I dropped the photograph onto Barb’s keyboard. “I picked this off Falcone. She’s on his radar because she helped me. I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.”

 

Tim made a disgruntled noise in his throat. “And what? We’re supposed to sit back and let you run loose?”

 

“You could try to stop me,  _Robin_. But that would just be embarrassing.” I rounded on him, staring a hole in his face. This kid was on my last good nerve. My only good nerve. I narrowed my eyes. “Falcone is no different than any of the others. He extorts, steals and tortures from this city. Six kids were almost killed because of him.  _Don’t_ tell me this place won’t be better off when I stick a bullet in his head.”

 

The room was dead-silent after that. I kept my eyes on him, but I could see Dick looking from Tim to me and back several times. He knew we hated each other, and if I ignored my conscience (yes, I do have one, thanks) telling me not to strangle him, Dick would likely put himself between us. Barb was fidgeting nervously, doing her best to ignore us to find me the info I needed.

 

“Jason.” Tim said, glancing down at the floor like he was trying to find words. “This isn’t the way we do things. It’s not the way Bruce did things. He wouldn’t want you to stop crime by becoming a criminal.”

 

“This is justice, Tim.” I wanted to be as plain as I can be. This was long overdue. “Falcone will have exactly what he dishes out. He wants to place the lives of six children in danger, gun for my head - he gets what he deserves. You want to know what Bruce would do?” I leaned closer, a good bit taller than him. “Bruce would try to get him arrested for something small, like a drug charge or intimidate him enough to run him out of town. It isn’t right...You all want to do it his way, fine. I suppose someone has to in a place like Gotham.” I felt Barbara push a slip of paper into my hand. The address.

 

I shoved past him towards the lift, my body shaking with something I couldn’t describe but it was between rage and desperation. I was glad they couldn’t see how my lip quivered through my mask. “But I can’t do it his way and live with myself.”

 

I got onto the platform and threw the cage closed. I pushed the button for the fourth floor - the equipment cache. “I’m taking him out. Whether you like it or not.”

 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

**OTISBURG**

 

An hour and a chili dog with ketchup and relish later, I was feeling much better. I wasn’t twitching anymore and I was able to breathe without exhaling in streams of curse words. When you feel like you’re always losing, small victories are what you live for.

 

Her apartment wasn’t hard to find in the complex, all you had to do was follow the Led Zeppelin that seemed to billow from an open window through the Gotham air. A fire escape snaked down the building to it. First, I checked the rooftops all around and made damn sure there wasn’t a sniper or assassin lurking in the vicinity. I expected two or three, but found none. I didn’t like it one bit. The sooner I gave her the phone, the better.

 

I leaned with my back against the brick to the left of her window for a while. I heard voices accompanying the riffs of Jimmy Page’s guitar. Abigail had company, but thankfully, they sounded like they were on the far side of the room, near the door.

 

“What do I owe you for the fix job, ‘Gail?” Older female voice, with a calm politeness to it you’d never find in someone who grew up in the city.

 

Abigail laughed. “Oh come on, Donna. We’ve been over this. We’re friends, don’t worry about the money. It was an honor, fixing up a Jim Croce record. Really.”

 

The door shut. I peeked around the edge of the window into her apartment. It was mostly how I remembered it, apart from the pot rack over the sink where a new hanging basket of purple flowers that hung instead of, you know, pots. Then there was Abigail herself, clad in a pair of ripped, well-loved jeans and a Gotham Knights jersey a couple sizes too-big for her. Barefoot again. Her hair was wound up in a bun at the nape of her neck, her blonde bangs hiding her eyes as she walked straight to the fridge and pulled out a beer. She didn’t take the top off until she got to her table which had been pulled out slightly. Sheets of glass, a pair of oven mitts and a few vinyl records were spread out on the top. There was something green poking out from the blue mitts, but I couldn’t see what it was. Abigail had noticed it too, and she plucked it out.

 

While she had her back to me, I carefully stepped into the room behind her. The music masked the sound of my hard boots hitting her hardwood floor. I crossed my arms.

 

Her eyebrows lifted and her lips spread in a begrudging smile. “Fifty bucks.” She sighed, and laid it on the mitt again. In a quick motion, she uncapped the beer and toasted. “To you, Donna Ripley.” She drank down the neck’s worth of beer.

 

The solo of Zeppelin’s “Heartbreaker” came up, and as she turned around, saw me and stopped dead with her mouth slightly open - the band quit playing, and then Page’s guitar wound up a few notes at a time until it became a complicated, swelling riff. Under my red hood, my eyes locked onto hers and didn’t look away, searching her expression for...Fear? Anger? Unlike the last couple of times I scared her, she didn’t drop anything. Just stared.

 

“Jason.”

 

Taking extra care to avoid brushing me, she moved to the window and closed the robin’s egg blue curtains. I commented lightly, “You don’t look too happy to see me.”

 

“I won’t lie to you; I’m not.” She said, as she went to lower the volume on the record player. She faced me, sitting down into her armchair. Her gaze was steely and even though her mouth was smiling, her tone was cold. “You did say that I only saved you from bleeding to death to try to sleep with you while you were, as you put it, ‘laid up in bed.’”

 

“Okay,” I winced, scratching the back of my neck and letting my arms fall dumbly at my sides. “I deserve that.”

 

“Well, I assume you’re here for a reason,” Abigail traced the mouth of her bottle with the tip of her pointer finger. “And sit down for God’s sake, you’re making me nervous.”

But looking to the couch I laid on not a week and a half ago, I noticed a small stain tinted reddish-brown on one of the cushions. My blood. I didn’t remark on it, just sat down and threw my ankle over my opposite knee. I removed my hood too, setting it onto the space next to me and tousling my hair a bit, the tangles of helmet head all through the black strands. Abigail asked me if I wanted a beer, and I smirked. “I’m on duty, sunshine.”

 

She rolled her dark blue-gray eyes, then leaned forward and stood up the bottle on the wooden floor. “So. What do you need?”

 

“You watch the news, right?”

 

She nodded, bit her lip. “You took Falcone’s eye out. Looks like he’ll come after you in full-force now.” My eyebrows furrowed; she seemed uncomfortable in the way she brought her legs up into the chair and held her ankles there with trembling hands. “What does this have to do with me?”

 

“I found a picture of you rescuing me in his jacket,” I dove a hand into my jacket pocket, taking out the drop phone I’d swiped from the equipment floor at the Clocktower. I handed it to her, and she stared at the heavy weight in her hand like it was a dead mouse. I frowned. “He might come after you to get to me, so I want you to keep that, just in case. It’s untraceable.”

 

Abigail tossed the phone back to my lap, and said flatly, looking pointedly at the floor, “I’ve got a gun. I’ll be fine.”

 

I laughed humorlessly, wondering if she’d lost her mind. “What are you - dense? Didn’t you hear me? He will  _find you_.”

 

She didn’t answer me. This was a different girl than the one who stitched me up. Something had happened, something to shake her up. And I don’t think she’s telling. I ran a hand down my face, scratching the stubble at my jaw and tried to control myself. I exhaled sharply, my frustration building. “Abigail, look at me.”

 

Mutely, she met my eyes, but I saw nothing behind the stormy gaze that she gave me. This, as much as I attempted to reel it back, worried me and pissed me off all at once. Like she didn’t even care. I urged, “I’m trying to save you. Because….because I don’t want to see anyone get hurt because of me. Trust me, you don’t know Falc-”

 

“Oh,  _don’t_  I?” She snapped, her face twisting in sudden anger. She got up from her seat and came over to me, snatching the phone from me. She glared down at the screen. “I’ll take the phone. How do I reach you from it?”

 

I stood up, looking over her shoulder and tapped the bottom button. “Hold in that button, it’ll connect you to my communications.”

 

“Brilliant,” She said sarcastically, pushing the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. She glanced up at me. “Is that all?”

 

I kinda understood now the reason she always sounded so calm and talked like she was weighing her words. She had this other side of her, this testy and...almost vengeful part. Sure, I’ve known this chick for all of barely two days and an hour, but even with whatever she’s dealing with, she helped me. And I won’t turn my back on her because she’s giving me a run for my money in spitting at risk. There’s a difference though. I was trained in many forms of surviving. By Batman, by the streets of Gotham...by Joker. I had no clue what training Abigail had, if any.

 

“That’s all,” I said finally, retrieving my hood from the couch and fastening it on. She watched me as I had one foot braced against her windowsill, about to go through it...then I added over my shoulder. “Night.”

 

I whipped out my grapple gun and pointed it to the building next to her apartment complex, the reeler rocketing me out of the room.

 

With any luck, Abigail, you’ll never have to use that phone. Carmine will stay away from you, and focus solely on me. I’ll get even less sleep, end up hurting myself more, irritate Tim, and everything else that I signed onto when I started picking up Bruce’s slack...But you’ll end up alright. Dolly Cash will end up alright. Those other kids will end up alright. No one else will get hurt. That’s all I care about. I managed a small smile under my hood, but there was a pinch in my chest.

 

Yeah...you’ll never have to use that phone and you’ll never have to see me again.

 

……………………………………………………………

 

Three flips of the Led Zeppelin record later, Abigail’s heart stopped racing. Seeing Jason again was the last thing she wanted to happen today. She finished her beer, leaving the empty bottle in the waste bin and taking her hair out of its bun, shaking out the gold locks. She slid the phone out of her back pocket, and unlocked it by dragging her thumb across the screen.

 

She poked around in the contents, returning to her chair and curling up. There was only one other feature, and it was the notepad. There was only one note, and it had her name on it. When she opened it up, her breath caught.

 

_Consider this me returning the favor. - J_

 

She locked the phone, sighing slowly and propping her head onto her hand. Finding herself smiling, she said to no one, “I guess we’re even then.”


	11. Devil on the Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles away from the city he swore to protect, a retired Bruce Wayne is on a different crusade. He's chasing a ghost he has made, and, for once, he calls in some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I wake up in the morning
> 
> And I raise my weary head
> 
> I got an old coat for a pillow
> 
> And the earth was last night's bed
> 
> I don't know where I'm going
> 
> Only God knows where I've been
> 
> I'm a devil on the run”
> 
> Bon Jovi, “Blaze of Glory”

 

**SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN**

 

“You have a visitor, Master Bruce.”

 

Alfred’s ever-formal tone was partly muted by the blue Hawaiian print shirt he wore over a pair of green swimming trunks and sandals, Bruce could see almost perfectly clear in the reflection of the window in front of him.

 

“The usual visitor?”

 

Alfred’s warm smile reached his eyes. “Indeed, sir.”

 

He gave the subtlest of nods, sipping from a champagne glass and wiping at his facial hair when the sun-orange drink was caught in it. He’d grown it to distort his features enough to avoid recognition as billionaire Bruce Wayne - outed to the world as Batman. Even so, he knew that anyone who’d been born and raised in Gotham would recognize him instantly anyway... Hence why Anguilla was the perfect island to stow himself away in. His visitor is the only one from the life of six months ago who knew he was here. Cynically, Bruce reminded himself that this guest knew because hiding from a Kryptonian was like hiding a third arm.

 

Alfred stepped aside, and gestured to the room for the man in the hallway to enter. Bruce moved his eyes to the familiar form in the reflection, to the blue suit with the red tie, the square-frame glasses and in his hands... Bruce raised a thick black eyebrow. “Is that a newspaper?”

 

“It is.”

 

Bruce came round, setting his glass down on the suite’s kitchenette table and held his hand out. “May I see it?”

 

Clark shot his friend a wry grin, waving the copy of  _Gotham Gazette_ around. “Don’t tell me now that you’re beginning to miss the human race, Bruce.”

 

He handed it over, then shoved the hands capable of molding steel like silly putty into his pockets. He watched as Bruce ravenously scanned over each page, then limp over to collapse into a chair at the table. Worry crept into Clark’s expression, and focused his alien eyes as he went to sit opposite him, seeing the stress fractures in Bruce’s bones that Alfred had warned Clark not to bring up in conversation. “ _Master Bruce may not be in Gotham, but he is always the Batman, sir.”_ Against all advice, Bruce had continued his crusading even in his travels - but under cover, not in the cape and cowl but as an everyman doing the right thing. His easy smile faded; Bruce still risked his body - and his life - to protect the innocent at every cost.

 

Interrupting his thoughts was Bruce’s voice, asking him a question. “How are they?”

 

“Well, Barbara will only tell me what she wants me to know,” Clark could pick up on the little quivers in his friend’s voice with his acute hearing, but chose to ignore them. “Dick is doing overtime to cover both Bludhaven and Gotham at the same time. Last I saw him, he and Tim had put Riddler behind bars again.”

 

“Good.” said Bruce quietly, his crystal blue eyes falling back to the front page and staying there. He ran his heavily callused hands over the printed paper. “Was it necessary?”

 

“I don’t know the specifics,” Clark admitted, removing his glasses and folding them up. “But I know that it was provoked.”

 

“Which was it, then?” Bruce sounded tired, leaning back in his wooden chair and rubbing a tired, shadowed eye. “Women, children or animals?”

 

“Children. Six of them,” At Clark’s words, the other man looked up at him sharply with something dark in his gaze. “He saved them all, don’t worry. He didn’t kill anyone...That’s all I know. You know, Bruce...at one point or another, you need to tell them about this.”

 

“They’re stronger than you know.”

 

Clark glared at him, scowling internally at that stubbornness that had been a focal point of many of their arguments over the years. In the moonlight, the forty-something across from him seemed to be at home in the shadows. As if they were all the companionship he needed, but the Kryptonian knew better. He knew a lot better.

 

“They need you, Bruce. A letter, a single word or line to tell them you’re alright. That’s it.”

 

“But I’m not alright, am I, Clark?” Bruce reminded him harshly, covering his eyes with a hand. The dark timbre of a voice that he used to intimidate powerful men and drive fear into the hearts of criminals was reduced to a solemn clarity. He changed the subject.“We’ve discussed this. I am not strong enough to protect Gotham anymore...She’s in better hands now. I can’t return until I’ve found what I’m looking for.”

 

“Which you have oh-so-kindly told me about in detail.” Clark said sourly, but it was the sarcasm that made Bruce fight to suppress a laugh. “Does Alfred know what it is you’re searching for?”

 

“Like you’ll get him to talk.” Bruce drank from his champagne glass full of ginger ale. He refused to drink alcohol to keep his body as functional as it was going to get after all he’d put it through. “If I did ask you to deliver a message, would you?”

 

Clark stared at him, trying to sense any kind of deception. Eventually, he said with that all-American grin. “In a heartbeat.”

 

He watched as Bruce tore off two corners of the newspaper, so meticulously that he thought that he was tearing the paper to isolate certain words. He asked Clark for a pen, and the reporter provided him one, Bruce scribbling numbers onto the side margin of the pieces. When he was finished, he passed them to the Man of Steel with a knowing expression. Giving the papers a once-over, he hoped that the recipients would know where the coordinates led.

 

“Deliver the one in your left hand to Dick Grayson, and deliver the one in your right hand to Jason Todd.”


	12. Satan, Laughing: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason knows where the criminal underworld lays its head, and he's in the mood for a gamble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Now in darkness, world stops turning,
> 
> ashes where the bodies burning.
> 
> No more war pigs have the power,
> 
> hand of god has struck the hour.
> 
> Day of judgment, god is calling,
> 
> on their knees the war pigs crawling.
> 
> Begging mercy for their sins,
> 
> Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...Oh lord, yeah!”
> 
> Black Sabbath, “War Pigs”

 

I checked my watch for the seventh time in that alley, trying as hard as I could not to think about what I was about to do. A memory bubbled up to the surface of my mind, and allowed myself to be consumed just for a second.

 

_“Jason, where did you get this?”_

 

_Bruce was holding up the Bulgari watch that was worth more than the Ferrari he drove, and I was sitting in a chair on the other side of his mahogany desk. I was barely thirteen, with malnourished skinny limbs and when I hugged my torso as I did now, my ribs stabbed my forearms. This was a week after he’d taken me in, after he caught me with the hubcaps off the BatMobile...hoping to sell them for food money. A week after the first bath I’d gotten here, when Alfred scrubbed the filth off me and Bruce had to leave after the first fifteen minutes when he saw how thin I was, the bruises, the nasty scabby scrapes...the reality of homelessness._

 

_I stared at the floor, and said snarkily, “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find something else to sell off once you’re bored with your charity case and I’m on the streets again.” I glanced up at him. “What do you care anyway? You’ve got loads of watches.”_

 

_“I don’t care about the watch, I care about why you took it...” He clarified, and leaned forward. “Alfred’s informed me that you’ve been hiding stashes of food from the kitchen all over your room. Under your bed, in your dresser.” I looked at him quickly, wide-eyed, as he asked, “Jason, how long have you been stealing to survive?”_

 

_Surprising me, the stinging of tears behind my eyes made my head hurt, but I refused to let my age show to billionaire Bruce Wayne. I squeezed my arms tighter around my ribs and closed my eyes when I answered him, “Years. I have no one else to help me...not since my mom died.”_

 

_He frowned, and I tried to force myself to see pity in his eyes, but truly? All I saw was a sad compassion. He stood up, rounded the desk and came to kneel in front of my chair. Bruce rested his hands on my thin shoulders, looking me in the eyes. “I promise you: I did not bring you here for a bit of publicity and a temporary fix for you. I brought you here to live, to give you a fighting chance. I promise you...that you’ll never have to steal again. Ever.”_

 

_A fighting chance. I remembered thinking the world of him, thinking that maybe he was serious...I remembered trying not to cry, pressing my lips in a hard line and tears welling up in my eyes, only to fight them back. I remembered him smiling, giving me a hug before yelling for Alfred. A much younger butler came in through the doors, took one look at me and said, “Master Jason, are you alright?”_

 

_“Alfred, grab your apron,” Bruce said, his eyes still on me. “We’re going to get Jason back to full health...and starting tomorrow, we’ll be catching him up on his education...We are going to give Jason a fighting chance, do you hear?”_

 

_Alfred beamed and said, with great pleasure, “Yes, sir.”_

 

 _When he left, Bruce turned back to me and had this look in his blue eyes. “When you’re strong enough, I will give you the opportunity to do something, no... To_ be  _something more wonderful than you or I can imagine.” He gazed out to the window, where a pair of robins were flitting about the lawn. “To be a part of the legend...”_

 

He’d given me the watch I’d tried to steal for my sixteenth birthday three years later, two years after I’d become the second incarnation of Robin. The day I first put on the uniform was the happiest day of my life to date. I knew what I wanted to be. I knew what I wanted to do...I was magic.

 

The watch around my wrist now, though it seemed smaller than it did then, was the same one he’d given me. But that was years ago...I had to focus. The makeup on the cheek with the brand hadn’t rubbed off. Good. The character I would be tonight was that of Mikhail Lazarev, Russian tycoon, and since I couldn’t really cover up the brand on my cheek, I decided to work with it. I used prosthetic scar wax and turned the ‘J’ on my cheek into the Russian character for ‘L’, connecting the right side of the top of the ‘J’ over and bringing it into a line straight down. I combed my hair back, sprayed my white skunk streak with black hairspray. Add a tailored Dolce suit, a silk red scarf and I was someone else when I looked in the mirror, seeing none of streetrat Jason Todd.

 

I crossed the street to the Iceberg Lounge, dodging a spray of dirty water from a taxi speeding by. I’d been coming here often, both as Red Hood and as Mikhail Lazarev, collecting information from the hotbed of the criminal underworld. Penguin’s lounge was Gotham’s hotspot for the elite to let their hair down, and then swindle each other under the table. The city’s villains often met here, too, but they were regulars of the VIP room, where Cobblepot had his fights. The times I’d been here as Red Hood, I was too busy fighting - and having fun - to really collect information and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was coming just to accumulate scars and great stories.

 

So here I was, returning as a Russian billionaire that didn’t exist until four months ago. The bouncer, an ex-KGB that was still in great shape and could probably snap your neck with his pinkie finger, recognized me and unclipped the velvet rope, a lopsided grin on his scarred face. I researched him; Yakov was a family man who left Russia for opportunity in America, and he only worked for Penguin to pay the bills.

 

“Joining the tournament,  _tovarisch_?” He asked me in the thickest of accents.

 

I flashed a white smile, and answered in Russian that wasn’t as rusty as it’d been the first time I’d come here. “ _Naturally. Always winning, my friend._ ”

 

An offended, angry voice behind me shouted, “Why does he go in free? He should be in the back of line with the other simpletons!”

 

I’ll be damned. I turned around, seeing the green suit and cane of Edward Nygma. The Riddler. He had his pointy face puckered in disgust as he eyed my cheek and sized me up, probably thinking of how he could outsmart me. Yakov rolled his eyes. “He is a prized guest... _dolboeb_.”

 

I let out a dark chuckle, heading inside and hearing Eddie yelling, “ _What_ did you just call me?! I’ll have you know that-” But the door shut, the music inside drowning out his self-important rants.

 

The Iceberg Lounge was composed of three circular levels: the dining section, the poker section which had the band in the center, and the VIP room on the ground floor. The dining and poker sections were open and together, connected by stairs. The VIP room kept unwanted guests away by two other bouncers posted at the top of the staircase, and that room held the owner’s table, where the final game of the poker tournament was going to be played. I checked my watch.  **7:54 P.M.**  I had six minutes until I had to be at table six for my first game.

 

The bar was at the back wall, the two bartenders busy making and serving drinks. I went there first, the jazz music snaking through the thoughts in my head. I slid into a stool, snapped my fingers to get the lady bartender’s attention. Once she came close, I spoke lowly to her with a lithe accent, "Surprise me, just make it cold and painful."

 

I spun around to face the outside, and realized I knew a lot of these clowns. Two-Face and -wait for it - a pair of beautiful identical twins were lurking to poker table one, and he had that coin with him, the one he never does anything without consulting first. I didn’t see Penguin himself anywhere; 10K says that he’s in the VIP room, handpicking those who would be fighting on his behalf, most likely.

 

A glass was pushed into my hand, the words ‘Johnnie Walker’ said into my ear, and as I glanced back, I saw the amber liquid on the rocks. Before I could take my first sip, I looked back to see the Riddler finally strutting back into the lounge. He spotted me and shot eyes of daggers in my direction. I raised my glass in a toast, winked and offered him a cavalier grin. I kept the whiskey in my mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. The bartender had added some water, I could tell. It didn’t burn the whole way down like cask-strength whiskey did, and the ice helped with that, too. I learned to drink in Venezuela with the militia, but while they never saw my face, I was observant. The small preferences I’d figured out, I’d learned from watching them and each night, I would test something new out.

 

The loungehands were beginning to wave people over to the poker tables, and I took my drink with me as I got into my first game of the night. I would need to win five straight games to automatically get into the final table, but if I lost one, I would need to win twice at other tables to make up for it. I wasn’t worried. I used to play cards with Alfred Pennyworth and Bruce Wayne, two great masters at manipulation and cards. No one was going to beat me tonight. The first couple of games I won were against celebrities who assumed they were going to win based on dumb luck, and petty no-name crooks who assumed they were going to win based on bribing the dealer. Joke’s on them: I won based on skill. Another trick - don’t drink when you play cards. It makes your thoughts roll together and become incoherent. When I was finished with the second game, my ice had already diluted most of my whiskey. Why order a drink anyway? To lull your opponents into a false sense of security when they see the glass. They see the glass and they think you’re hammered. But then the river card comes and you’ve got two pairs of queens to their measly pair of sevens. Then, you get to spread your arms wide and pull a nice pot of chips over your way. Drink it in.

 

The third game only had three other players, but one of them was Victor Zsasz. You know, mister “I’ve got a tally mark for every person I kill and keep them all neat as I carve them into my skin, isn’t that nice? Let me describe the process to you so you can picture it, won’t that be fun?”. If there was an award for most consistent in their madness, it would be tied between Joker and this guy. Dent can’t decide whether to speak as Harvey or Two-Face half the time, Riddler’s obsessed with his own superiority that most of the crimes he commits are infrequent and - of all things - he leaves clues, and Penguin’s not crazy at all, just power-hungry and ruthless. But Zsasz...when I beat him in the first hand, I could actually pinpoint the fingers he used to kill most often because they all twitched when I pulled off a bluff of a two and a three...and made him fold a pair of kings.

 

I asked him, minding my character and adding a few more words into my usual speech, “What is the matter, Mister Zsasz?”

 

I slowly pulled the small chip pot towards myself, before taking one of the chips to flip between my fingers. He wore a black suit, most of it trimmed with black satin and it made his pasty white face whiter. His ice-blue eyes grew even colder, deader as he said to me, “I’m deciding where to put your tally, Mr. Lazarev...”

 

I grinned at him. After everything I’ve been through,  _this_ guy thinks he’ll be the one to put me down for good? I laughed. “Be sure to choose a good spot for me.”

 

“Do not deny me my revenge against the midget.” He whispered, as the next hand was dealt with nervous, trembling fingers by the female dealer sitting next to Zsasz.

 

The rest of that game was like that. I’d win a hand or lose a hand, and Zsasz would twitch accordingly. Soon, it was just him and me. The final hand was my four Jacks (I’ll ignore the irony for the sake of my temper) over his high flush. He’d had enough, and nearly launched himself over the table at me. I had enough reflex to tip my chair and lean to the left, his long fingernails grazing my neck as he fell to the floor. A couple of security goons came over, grabbing him by the arms. He was seething, clawing at the guards who dwarfed him, and screaming at the top of his lungs that he would have my head on a silver platter if he could. Great guy, huh?

 

I watched them throw Zsasz out, finishing off my whiskey before heading back to the bar to return the glass. On my way there, I got the attention of one of the ladies running the poker tournament. Some were there to make ends meet, but others were there because they enjoyed taking the politicians into the private rooms and robbing them blind while they were busy staring at them while they danced. A couple I knew by name, others by reputation. The lady I spoke to now, Candy, was dark-skinned and wore a pair of glasses over her salacious green eyes. I grabbed her by the elbow and leaned close, asking in her ear, “Come fetch me if they start my next game early.”

 

Candy pursed her lips, and her pink lipstick shone oddly in the lights of the nightclub. “And where might I find you?”

 

“The balcony.” I said with a small smile. Candy nodded, giving me a once-over.

 

It was a simple walk up to the higher level, and then hang a left at the top to get to the balcony, showing a grand view of pre-summer Gotham skyline. I was alone up here...all the excitement was inside, with the tournament.

 

No one would notice me here...They’d see a stranger in a strange land admiring American progress. But really? I took a minute to be that wide-eyed boy falling in love with this city despite all its faults. I rested both hands on the damp banister, and breathed in a big lungful of the air, loving how it smelled like smoke trying its hardest to be rose perfume. The older gothic buildings, while menacing to some, always looked homely to me. As if they had a colossally huge story to tell and little time to tell it. Every nook and cranny of this city had some story that it needed to tell...But it was always interrupted by gunfire and corruption, so the story’s buried beneath nightmares and lead.

 

That was always the saddest part of Gotham. That it  _was_ a nice place, if you could look past the filth and the heartache around every corner. But often, I was guilty of it sometimes, people like Tim Drake...they see Gotham City like an irreparably broken music box that exists just for poor souls to try to fix it...They never stop to think - hey, it was fine the way it is. That distorted tune it's playing can be appreciated just as anything else. Quit pickin’ on it. Now, that doesn’t mean don’t even try to improve it - even if all the good you’re doing is for a little family of three that you’ll never see again...or if it’s comforting a boy who’s had to watch his mom die of a drug overdose.

 

God knows the kind of good my family has brought to Gotham.

 

Then there are people like Alfred and Bruce, people like Abigail. The helpers and the philosophers, who think of better places or know better places but choose to stay in Gotham because it's all they’ve known or it's where their family is. These kinds of people can’t be corrupted...because they have bigger fish to fry. I’ve always wondered if someday, I could be someone like that. I don’t know what, exactly...I mean, I wouldn’t call myself some kind of hero. Certainly not with what I’ve done to this city...But I like to think the gray in my moral compass has more white in it now than black. That I’m enough to keep the city as safe as it can be.

 

_Brave. It should be for brave._

Kids, man. Kids.

 

_Hey. I helped you because I agree with you, mystery man._

 

I felt a smile creep its way onto my face, and I closed my eyes as the breeze hit my face. I did my best not to jump out of my skin when the hand fell on my shoulder, and I did my best not to strangle the neck of the man who’d touched me when I saw who it was. My blood boiled and a muscle in my neck jumped.

 

I reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt, growling at him under my breath, “Just what the  _black and blue_ hell do you think you’re doing here, replacement?”

 

He shoved me off him, and replied indignantly, “Saving your ass.”

 


	13. Satan, Laughing: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having the little brother tag along just isn't that much fun. Now that Tim has found Jason undercover at Penguin's Iceberg Lounge, things get hairier as the Red Hood makes his way to the owner's table...and finds just what he was looking for, but not packaged how he'd like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Now in darkness, world stops turning,
> 
> ashes where the bodies burning.
> 
> No more war pigs have the power,
> 
> hand of god has struck the hour.
> 
> Day of judgment, god is calling,
> 
> on their knees the war pigs crawling.
> 
> Begging mercy for their sins,
> 
> Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...Oh lord, yeah!”
> 
> Black Sabbath, “War Pigs”

 

Well, that was the first in a list of things that went wrong during this mission. Boy Wonder the Third poked his nose where it didn’t belong, first off. My hands were shaking. “Which one told you? Dick or Babs?”

 

Tim narrowed his eyes. He wore the same flat black suits the other waiters wore, and I could see that he’d set his tray of finger food on the banister before approaching me.“Oh no, I volunteered to go after you. I had Barbara send me the signals from your tracker bullets. They pointed me to where you were because you never leave the fire station without them. You’re talking as if tailing you was a challenge.” He cracked a smirk. “Wasn’t hard to find you.”

 

I rose my eyebrows. “Trying to prove something, kid?”

 

“That you can’t do everything by yourself,  and will be forced to rely on the family at some point, yeah. We didn’t welcome you back into the family so that you could turn into another Bruce.” Tim snarked back, before he leaned in and got serious, “Listen. I thought you might want to know that Carmine Falcone just arrived.”

 

“ _What?_ ” That would be the second thing in that list.

 

I checked the entrance to the balcony, sure that no one overheard us. I exhaled jaggedly in aggravation. This kid was going to give me more white hair if he kept up this shit. Either way...he was my responsibility now. If he got hurt, Barb would have my neck. Great. I wanted to tear my hair out, but that’d ruin the black hairspray that was hiding my identity pretty well so far.

 

“Would you get lost if I told you to?” It was really a rhetorical question, because I didn’t expect him to let it go. When I started walking inside, he was right behind me. I rolled my eyes. “Of course not.” I stopped him with an arm, and said under my breath, having an idea, “Okay. If you’re staying then you might as well make yourself useful. Keep an eye on Carmine. When I sit down at the owner’s table, tell Babs to tip off Gordon and keep close.”

 

“Why?” Tim asked, not quite understanding, and that’s how he got himself into trouble: he asked the questions you really don’t want answered.

 

“Riddler’s here, didn’t you see him?” I watched him blink a few times; he hadn’t seen Nygma. Apparently, Boy Wonder wasn’t as good as he thought he was. “I think Gordon would be interested to find out how he’s broken out of jail after you and Dick put him away. He’ll be at the owner’s table, and I’ll have him preoccupied enough to have him stay put until Gordon gets here.”

 

I stalked away, leaving him there dumbfounded. Maybe that will push him down a few pegs. I hadn’t forgotten that the first time I’d seen this kid, it was a photo being shoved in my face while barbed wire was wrapped around my chest and that clown was laughing at me...I knew that Tim Drake didn’t think of himself as my replacement...He thought of himself as my  _improvement._ Self-honed detective skills, able to control his temper...incorruptible and strong sense of Batman’s view of justice? No-kill rule same as his? I tried not to let that eat away at my gut, and I would never ever say this out loud...but Tim Drake might be a better Robin than I ever was. Dick and Barbara know that, Bruce knew that...It’s the family’s best-kept unspoken secret about Tim and me. But here’s a better secret.

 

He may be a better  _Robin_  than me...but he is not betterthan me.

 

I didn’t tell him the real reason Gordon should get here when the time’s right. I was going to put a bullet in Falcone’s head today...and I wanted the good Commissioner to see the hole I left up close. Christmas came early this year, and I peeked at my gifts.

 

When I returned to the tournament tables, the loungehand pointed me towards my fourth game. No one of consequence in this fourth match, but the challenge was building. I found myself folding more often to save my chips for when a better hand came along, instead of getting ahead of myself and bluffing my way to the pot. I had to be careful for once. Card sharks that associate themselves with Penguin aren’t too much different from the real sharks he kept in his museum.

 

The last hand was tight...I had a low full house of two fives and three sixes and three nice stacks of chips in front of me. The only thing that could screw me over and have me chomping at the bit through two makeup games was a straight flush, a four of a kind, or a higher full house. The last two at my table were the twins Two-Face brought in with him earlier. Looks like they’re not just here for his arm candy. They were beautiful, but from the kind of bluffs they were pulling off, these ladies weren’t stupid. I kept my face completely blank as the girls exchanged glances with conversations in them I couldn’t decipher. The flop had two of the sixes of my full house, and one of the fives, but the third card was a four. One of these chicks could have a straight flush going on…

 

“How’re you feelin’ over there, Mr. Lazarev?” The girl in the white dress said smoothly as she leered at me. She was platinum blonde, and she tapped the green felt on the table. “I check.”

 

She was quiet all through this game and she wants to start talking now? Chicks. I grinned at her, throwing the accent back on like a fur coat. “I’m grand.” What the hell? I pushed all of my chips into the pot. I watched her go stark white. “Five-hundred-sixty grand. I’m all in.”

 

Her sister, a brunette in a black dress, pushed her chips in and after a moment of silent deliberation between them, the blonde did too. Finally, some excitement. I threw my cards up there, and the girls did too. The brunette had the straight flush possibility, in spades. She had a three and a four, the five and six on the flop...all she needed was a two or a seven on the turn. The blonde eyed both our cards and sighed, tossing her cards to the dealer. She got up from her chair and stood by her sister, glaring at me. The turn card came - a jack of clubs. Didn’t help me...but I doubted it would hurt me either. I couldn’t read my opponent, so I watched the dealer throw the river card. I huffed a breath of relief. It was a queen of hearts. My full house held and I’d won.

 

I pushed myself to stand, noticing that two of the large bouncers had come on either side of me. My hands itched for the guns in my jacket and the knife in my boot, but I knew they were here to escort me to the VIP room, not to sign their death warrant. I let them take the lead, and I followed, snatching a glass of champagne from one of the roaming waiters. I didn’t drink it often, but I was feeling lucky.

 

Until I felt someone tap on my shoulder, heard the suave voice say to me, “Quite an impressive win back there, Mr…?”

 

I don’t know why my champagne almost came out my nose or why a muscle in my cheek twitched as I saw Carmine descending the stairs next to me, in full eyepatch and fine suit. He seemed to be enjoying himself, taking a cigar out and a lackey of his keeping up with us lit it for him. As the smoke blew in my face, the anxiety from nicotine withdrawal (I was on hour thirty without a cigarette) was relieved but the effect was small. I said stiffly in the accent. “Lazarev.”

 

“Ahh, you’re the Russian hotshot I have been hearing about.” Carmine extended a hand to me, and I shook it dutifully. “Five games in a row without flinching.”

 

“Is that what they say?” It took a lot out of me to hold my voice steady and undisturbed. To be honest, I wanted to flinch more now than I had all night.

 

“Yes, your reputation precedes you,” He moved ahead of me, and his tone was dark, somewhat threatening. “...best of luck at the final table.”

 

I stopped with one foot on a step below the other, my heart pounding in my chest and holding my glass with rigid hands. I furrowed my brow and thought about the ammo in my jacket, the guns I had. What I felt wasn’t apprehension...it was discomfort. I wanted to scrape off my skin with a knife or something. I haven’t been this nervous in a long time. But it didn’t deter me. Not by a long shot.

 

I sucked in a deep breath and continued to come down to the VIP room. This room I remembered the most, the circular space in the middle that probably was originally going to be a dance floor but ended up being a “dance” floor that was stained with blood in some places and had gun racks on either side for Penguin’s boys. The outer tables were mostly empty, apart from the owner’s table...and what an all-star game this was going to be. Falcone, Riddler who was scowling at me through his green-framed glasses, Two-Face looking rather disgusted with being here in general, and then there was Cobblepot.

 

The old bird was still bald, the glass in his eye shining like a beacon...or a target. His white shirt rolled up to the elbow, and a loose black tie hung from his thick neck. He leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees and watched the dealer shuffle the cards. He sneered at me, a cigar in his teeth, “Lazarev! Nice’a you to join us. How’s the champagne, mate?”

 

The corner of my mouth pricked up in a smirk. “Adequate, Oswald. Adequate.”

 

Penguin’s face soured slightly, but once I sat down, I swiveled my gaze around. The circular floor was lined with thugs, a couple of them sparring in the center and the crowd on the perimeter booing or cheering, fists in the air. Nygma bristled, and I heard him say to Two-Face quietly, “Look at him, Harvey. Thinks if he comes here in a nice suit, he’s good enough to hang with the big boys.”

 

“You’re not threatened by him, are you, Eddie?” This was Harvey talking, as the tone was softer and more genuinely amused. Two-Face was all gravel-throated and cocky.

 

“Of course not,” Nygma replied quickly, “An intellectual Goliath like myself is agile and sly. Any slingshot he throws will be swiftly dodged, compensated for, and flung right back at him.”

 

Funny. At this range, I could probably have my gun in-hand and aimed at his face in a couple of seconds. Hard to dodge a bullet when it’s aimed at your head. I remembered the last time I was within arms-length of supercriminals and they had no clue that there was a snake in the grass. Six months ago, as Arkham Knight standing alongside Scarecrow. Dent, Cobblepot, Nygma...Poison Ivy. Even mourning Harley Quinn. I was so close that I could have put bullets in all of them and cut the heads off crime itself. Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I still thought about doing killing them all in that moment. It was almost a fantasy to me. A good dream. I thought about how I let that good dream fly away from me because of my own anger at Bruce. How I kidnapped my friends, betrayed the people that loved me because he didn’t save me.

 

Gotham’s criminal underbelly wouldn’t be stirring if I’d only had a spine then, forgotten my vengeance and done my job...I wouldn’t be here if I’d just done my job.

 

The dealer was distributing cards, and I noticed a couple of waiters coming down the staircase. Tim was carrying a silver platter of drinks on the flat of his hand, doing his best not to look at me. I tilted my head back to peek beneath my cards once I’d gotten them, the first hand. Nine of clubs, jack of spades - not terrible but not great either. I threw fifty bucks worth of chips into the pot for the ante, as did the others, and the dealer threw the flop cards. I’d scored a pair of jacks, but the other two cards - a six and an eight - were hearts. Possible flush if the turn or the river is another heart or both hearts. Propping my head onto my hand, I pushed a couple hundred bucks into the pot as I was left of the dealer, and got to bet first. I felt Nygma’s eyes glaring at me. With relish, he folded and seemed oddly pleased with himself.

 

I turned to Carmine, whose eyebrow was fidgeting over the eyepatch. I stared at him, deciding how I’d do it. The knife in my boot to his throat, or a few well-placed bullets in his face? Decisions, decisions. I caught Tim’s eye, and he nodded. He’s sent the tip to Gordon. I had to do this fast if I wanted to do this my way. Gotham’s a big place, so the response time from the old Gotham police department would be ten minutes, twelve tops. Falcone raised me another hundred dollars, and I’m pretty sure my guns got heavier in their holsters.

 

Two-Face groaned, folding as well and running a hand over the unscarred half of his face, “We can see that this is going to be a bad night already.”

 

“Dry your eyes,” Riddler’s face got red, and he pointed a finger away from the table, at no one in particular, “I just broke out of the GCPD yesterday. Barely. It was a matter of calculating the structural weaknesses in the bars and exploiting it with a heat source powerful enough to-” He scowled in frustration, waving his hands. “-Nevermind the specifics; you are all likely too thick in the skull to understand the nuanced genius I had to utilize to escape. It was  _difficult_ to say the least. If it weren’t for Nightwing and that equally irritating Robin meddling with my attempts to purge the stupidity out of Gotham, I would be the main brain in the city by now!”

 

Tim, as he stood behind Nygma now, swallowed and I was reminded a bit of me in just how young he was looking. He would need to keep a lid on it if he hoped to get out of here with me.

 

“When you issue a bomb threat on a think tank, you expected -what? A ‘thank you’ for wipin’ a bunch’a nerds off the planet?” Oswald laughed that throaty, raspy laugh of his and puffed at his cigar. He glanced at the elder Falcone, his eyes lighting a little with deadly curiosity. “Carmine, your eye botherin’ ya?”

 

“Mind your own eye, Cobblepot,” Falcone said, an ingenuous smile on his face. “And point yours somewhere else, you’re blinding me with the light shining off it.”

 

Cobblepot muttered something about Carmine being blind soon enough, and I let out a chuckle. The dealer flipped the turn card - a two of clubs. The old Don of Gotham stopped fiddling with his eye and leaned forward, leering at me.

 

“Tell me, Lazarev. How did you get your scar?”

 

I met his eyes. This was that chance I was talking about. My chance. I rested my cards on the table, and said to him, without an accent, “The same place you got your eyepatch, I imagine.” I lifted a hand and picked up the edge of the prosthetic scar wax with my thumbnail, peeling it off my face. His eyes went from a leer to wide shock and haughty recognition at my voice. “From the Red Hood.”

 

Everything happened in a blur then. At the same time my fingers got to my gun, Falcone was reaching across the table, I got up from my chair and kicked an oncoming bouncer in the gut. The first shot of my gun was fired at a second thug jumping the fighting ring’s chrome fence at me, the second and third were into the chests of Nygma and Two-Face - the latter of which was trying to get a grip on his own gun. I caught a glimpse of Tim about to whip his bo-staff across Cobblepot’s face. I jumped onto the table, driving my heel into Falcone’s jaw in a wild kick while I fired a bunch of lead into Penguin’s thugs as they advanced onto the poker table, and I heard screams from people upstairs, shouting of Penguin, the gunfire and dirty words coming from yours truly, at one point a guy had gotten onto the table and was about to hit me over the head with a baseball bat. I threw a kick his way, which he - to my surprise - caught. I grinned, yanking the knife out of that boot and slicing his neck open. Blood sprayed onto my face as he collapsed off the table, clutching desperately at his throat. Thirty seconds had passed, and I finally had my gun pointed to Falcone at last, crimson and sweat on my face.

 

He lifted his hands, rage on his face as raw as when I’d taken his eye out. Blood from the other guy on his face as well, and the black of the eyepatch gave me something to target. I trained my gun on that.

 

“All clear! It’s alr-”

 

“ _Think again, Junior.”_ Came the gravelly voice of Two-Face behind me. I turned my body sideways, the gun still aimed at Falcone’s face and glanced back at Tim. Harvey had both guns on either temple of Tim’s head while he had his bo-staff under a bleeding Penguin’s chin. “Let Falcone go, and we might even consult the coin to see if Robin lives.”

 

Remember that list of shit to go wrong? This was number three. Every nerve, every blood vessel, every bone in my body was begging me to kill Carmine Falcone. My hand shook, and I was hissing my breaths in and out through my teeth. My left knee buckled, and I was kneeling on the poker table, my gun pressed to Falcone's forehead like a kiss from cold steel. For a few prolonged seconds, I was tensing myself up to pull the trigger.

 

I forced myself to think of Barbara. If Tim died right now, I was responsible and I knew she would never forgive me like she did for what I did six months ago. No chance in hell. Gordon's men should be closing in...I glanced back at Tim. Through a cut that bled slowly from his head, he looked at me with fear mixed with anger mixed with...betrayal. Realization hit me. I had hesitated to drop the gun the minute Two-Face pointed his at Tim. I hesitated to cast aside my vengeance to protect the guy who replaced me as Robin. I didn't feel guilty, not at all. Just that sensation of my skin crawling again.

 

I lowered my gun from Falcone’s head, just as something metallic and heavy hit me in the back of mine.


	14. Wouldn't It Be Great if We Were Dead?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Jason have both been discovered, and have woken up tied to chairs, the last situation Jason ever wanted to be in. To pass the time, Tim has some pertinent questions for Jason...like how he almost let him die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have you heard the news that you're dead?  
> No one ever had much nice to say  
> I think they never liked you anyway  
> Oh take me from the hospital bed  
> Wouldn't it be grand? It ain't exactly what you planned.  
> And wouldn't it be great If we were dead?"
> 
> \- My Chemical Romance, "Dead!"

 

When I came to, my eyes almost too heavy to open, I felt the same cold-stomached dread that had greeted me every morning and kissed me goodnight after each day of torture with the Joker. My hands were bound to the arms of my chair with chains, and my hair hung in my face. My head was killing me. The room was dim, like the asylum’s and there were only two things that comforted me somewhat in this: it didn’t look like I was in Arkham, and that I wasn’t alone. Facing me, just a couple of feet to my front, was Tim chained to a chair. He was squinting through the dull light.

“Good, you’re awake,” He said, but he sounded detached, distant. “I wondered if Nygma had given you a concussion. Your head did make a pretty nasty smacking sound when he hit you.”

I tried to move my head, sharp arrows of vertigo lashing through my brain and I leaned my head back to relieve it. I cleared my throat, and asked him hoarsely, “Where are we?”

“Penguin’s museum. After you were knocked unconscious, he kicked Falcone out of the Iceberg Lounge - said something about this feud between you and him being... bad for business,” He sounded like he was having trouble breathing. “He said that you and me would be dealt with, but didn’t say how or when. So he threw us in here tied to chairs and I heard some of the guards talking outside, saying that Gordon is digging in - preparing SWAT to go in and rescue us...But it’s been three hours since. I’m getting worried.”

“Yeah, like we’re really going to trust SWAT to help  _Red Hood_ and  _Robin,_ ” I tested the chainlinks, managing some bend in them. There was a lock next to the knobby bone in my wrist. "Or don't you remember that we're still outlaws?"

Tim got short with me, anger rising in his voice. “Well, they might be more willing to help me. You know, considering I don’t kill people or increase people’s chances of being killed for an idiotic vendetta. You want to tell me what happened back there?”

“You're the boy detective," I shot back sourly, glaring around the room, "You figure that out while I do the hard work on getting us out of here."

And then he hit me with the kicker question. “Were you really going to let him kill me…?”

I can’t really put my finger on why it took me a few minutes to answer him. He waited patiently, staring at me while my eyes found the calluses on my wrists left from tugging against restraints. My jaw was tight, almost painfully tight. I met his eyes and dared the disgust in them to say something.

Finally, I admitted it, “At first? Yeah. I was."

He didn't comment. I felt like talking about this; maybe help him understand. It wasn't like there's much else to do until Penguin killed us or Gordon pulled his head out of his ass. I got the elephant off my chest first. "You took my place. You're the guy Bruce replaced me with, who goes to a private school, followed his orders with a 'yes,sir', and can't take a hint to save your life." I swept a gaze around at our scenery of gray, dirty walls and spatter of blood on the concrete floor. "Obviously."

"In detective terms, they call that motive," I said, and he looked back at me with his eyebrows pushed together. "I had a gun, and a room full of psychopaths. That would qualify as having means. And Two-Face grabbed you just when I had my gun on Falcone. Two people I had reason to hate, dead all in one night. That's the opportunity." I sighed. "That would've been the case - closed if I'd let you die. I would've been written off again by everyone I care about as being  _exactly_ what they thought I was. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Just another criminal."

He asked me, sounding small and almost unsure of himself. "But you didn't...Why? If you hate me so much, if I had taken so much from you - why leave me alive?"

"Because I'm Jason Todd," Somewhere deep in me, where the slightest sound was louder than a bomb and any reminder of this space felt like looking for skeletons in the old closet I used to hide in when my parents would fight, the colossal chip buried into my shoulder budged. "And I'm not what Joker made me. I am my own man. I decide what I do - not my vendettas, not my vengeance. And I'm sure as hell not going to let the Gotham alleys I used to sleep in be ruled by the corrupt and the cruel."

I didn't say it because my voice was rough from talking so much and because Tim had heard enough, but...I'd died once trying to get rid of evil. I was prepared to do it again, and do it my way. They would have to pry the innocent from my cold, dead fingers.

I watched Tim process, staring at me as if I'd ripped off my ruined skin to show him just what I really was. He said at last, "I really thought you'd betray us at the drop of a hat. You always ran off on your own, searching for trouble. I thought you were a reckless, psychotic, sadistic-

"Are you trying to say that you were wrong?" I was going for a half-smile at best, but it came out like a grimace. "Because you suck at it. Badly."

"Then, I'll just admit it," Tim said, shrugging a bit. "You're right. I misjudged you. I did some thinking while you were unconscious...I had no idea at first, because you're an ass, but I realized exactly what it was that Bruce saw in you. That fire. The drive to be the first to run into a burning building to save a litter of kittens or an old lady. None of us have the fire for this job than you do."

The corner of his mouth tugged up. "You didn't let me die because even after I'd pissed you off, I was in danger and you would've tried to save me."

“Whoah, watch it. Don’t overthink it." I warned, though he was mostly right, "Be careful who you call a hero, kid.”

Tim’s eyes darted to floor then, disappointed. You want to believe I got some kind of morality? I appreciate the idea. Thanks, but no thanks. Keep your morals away from me. I’ve got too much work to do to hesitate for even a second... I added, to brighten the room probably, “Besides, Barb would stick my head on the wall as a trophy if I let anything happen to you."

I saw his ears get pink, an amused smile twisting my mouth. He mumbled something under his breath and I kicked him hard in retaliation.

"Jesus, what was that f-"

I kicked him again, and growled, "Don't you say that again in front of me. Of course she'd notice. She'd be devastated-"

"Shhh, listen!" He hushed suddenly, and I heard it too. Pained grunts, impact noises...then faraway gunfire growing louder and louder until it stopped. More grunts, then fast punches and cracking sounds. Someone was getting the hell beaten out of them outside the door. That dread festered in my stomach again. Was the guard being pummeled or doing the pummeling? Was this a rescuer or an executioner outside? There was a buzzing noise. Like an escrima stick or a tazer.

Tim and I exchanged a glance. He was panicking over there, his eyes wide and he struggled against his restraints again. I didn't tell him it was useless, just stayed quiet and bided my time. The door flew back in a bang, making us jump and I nearly tipped my chair over.

A light behind the man at the door blinded us in the dim room, but as I blinked through the pain I recognized the silhouette. The lean muscle, slender limbs and lightweight, nimble frame.

"Sorry, little brothers. Slumber party at Penguin’s is over."

“You gonna stand there and pose, Dick,” I groaned, “Or are you going to get us out?”

He came closer, and I saw the Colgate smile plastered across his face as he held up a shiny metal thing - a key, flicked it up in the air like a coin. “Patience is a virtue, Jaybird.”

I rolled my eyes. God’s laughing at me. He got to unlocking Tim’s chains, and then mine. When my chains fell, I grabbed them in one hand and stood with throbbing limbs. I glanced down at the ropes of steel. They might be useful later.

Robins number one and three were by the door, waiting for me. After a few seconds, I followed them out of the Iceberg Lounge.

The exact route was a blur because I was still twitching at how many times I’d dreamed of something a bit like this years ago with  _him._ It never failed to amaze me that no matter how far I ran, how close I’d come to getting somewhere ideal, that the year and a half I spent with him will always burn hot in ways the brand on my cheek doesn’t anymore. How I’d would have begged on my hands and knees for Batman or Dick or Barbara or Alfred, just for “someone  _please help me!”_

When we got out of there, safely away from both the Lounge and Gordon, I ditched Dick with a muttered ‘thanks’ and Tim with a cold glance. My suit was shredded in some places, and my resolve in others. I ran, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, the thunder overhead catching up with me and soon the booming collided with that place deep in me where the grudge resides, the grudge against everyone I knew that knew about me and Joker.

The answer was kinda simple. I needed someone who hadn’t gotten the memo.

…………………………

**OTISBURG**

When I finally got to her fire escape, where I knew I shouldn’t be but somehow found myself, I saw her curled up in her armchair. Her blonde hair twisted up into a bun at the back of her head. Elvis was playing from her record player, a song I recognized. My mom used to sing it to me…Soft guitar, the ‘oo’s of the background singers.

“ _Are you lonesome...tonight? Do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?”_

I stepped into the room, and promised myself that I would leave as soon as I calmed down. Abigail was holding a book to her chest, and I picked out the word ‘Alice’ over the woven bracelet on her wrist. Her eyes were red and puffy, shining streaks down her cheeks. A lock of hair by her half-open mouth swayed with her inhales and exhales, but sometimes the inhales would hitch like the pain she must have been feeling to cry herself asleep was raw.

“ _Does your memory stray, to a brighter summer day...when I kissed you and called you ‘sweetheart’?”_

Behind me, on the couch, was a baby blue fleece blanket. When I lifted it from there, a waft of her yellowed books and sunflower scent. Carefully, I draped it over her little body. She didn’t wake, and I was vaguely grateful that I was good at being invisible. I sat on the floor by her chair, my soaked right shoulder dampening the dark corduroy and my head against the armrest.

“ _Is your heart filled with pain? Shall I come back again?”_

Some time later, after my lungs stopped aching and I buried Joker again in that deep, dark place of me, I left Abigail’s side. But the song was stuck in my head for days…

“ _Tell me dear, are you lonesome...tonight?”_


	15. Knockin' On Heaven's Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jason would've gone back in time and told his Robin self that he'd consider Dick Grayson one of his best friends, the second Robin would've socked him in the face. But that's all over, and the two eldest of Bruce Wayne's sons get an invitation to look through their father's closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Mama put my guns in the ground
> 
> I can't shoot them anymore
> 
> That cold black cloud is comin' down
> 
> Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door”
> 
> Guns N’ Roses, “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”

**THREE DAYS LATER**

 

You know, the first time I installed one of these, I don't remember it taking so damn long and being this difficult. Could be because it's a tank, but there wasn't anything I wouldn't do for my girl. I grinned like a lovestruck idiot when I was done, sitting up carefully from under the controls inside the main cockpit. I patted the wall beside me and wolf-whistled appreciatively. "There you go, darlin'. Now you're perfect."

 

"So, what'd you do?" I jumped so bad I almost clocked myself on a monitor right by me. I glared over my shoulder at the criminal that was hitting the absolute wrong tone for addressing my baby; he wore a long-sleeved shirt. It's almost eighty degrees - how does this guy wear that and not sweat to death? I'm in a wife beater and shorts, and I'm dying over here. His arms were folded on the lip of the exit hole and a wry smile on his stupid face. "Install yet another gun?"

 

"Since I'm in a good mood, I'll let that slide, " I said, offering an easygoing smile as I climbed the ladder out of the tank, him hopping to the ground. "But FYI, I put in a CD player. So piss right off, Dick."

 

“A CD player?” He laughed, leaning against The Missus while I grabbed the hem of my undershirt to dab at the sweat on my forehead. “I can see it now: this tank busts through the wall and starts shooting, ‘Wannabe’ playing through the speakers.”

 

“That’s the idea. Disturbing the peace in style,” I chuckled darkly, and he followed me up to the fire station’s kitchen. I opened up the fridge, “You hungry, man?”

 

“No thanks, I ate on the way here.”

 

Dick rubbed the back of his neck, giving me this funny look. I pulled out a water bottle, screwing the top off and chugging half the thing. I raised my eyebrows once I was finished, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hey, what’s up? You’re doing the face.”

 

“What face?”

 

“The ‘I gotta tell you something, but you’re not going to like it’ face.”  

 

He sighed, as if deciding that sooner was better than later. “Superman came to see me the night Penguin had you and Tim.”

 

I looked at him for a second, uncomprehending. “Superman? Like... _Superman_ Superman?”

 

“Do we know another Superman?” Dick dug his hand into his pockets, pulling out a couple slips of paper. “He came by to give us these. Here’s yours.”

 

He handed one of them to me. It was newspaper, the paper felt flimsy and fragile. Someone’s been really particular about which words to isolate on purpose, and had written numbers in the margins. But that wasn’t what made my heart stop in my chest and a cold sweat to break out on my forehead again. It was the handwriting. I’d seen it a million times in notes, birthday tags on gifts, and the times I’d tried to clean up my own penmanship by using his as a template.The ink was barely a few days old. The numbers...they were…My head was having a hard time processing this.

 

“Coordinates.” I breathed, holding the slip of paper carefully in my too-rough hands. “Which means…”

 

“Bruce...he’s alive,” Dick’s face was pinched, as if holding himself back from some other emotion. Like relief. Or some other motion. Like crying. “You were right….” When I looked back at him, he had his face covered with his hands. “All of us had just...accepted it. Accepted that him and Alfred were dead and you believed in them. More than any of us.”  
 

I pushed my hair out of my face and my own delirious relief down. I rested a hand on his shoulder, and that made him stare up at me. I wondered if this was how he felt when he told me that Bruce mourned me on that rooftop.

 

I tried at an earnest smile. I wanted to say something more inspirational, something that would make him smile back or laugh or hell, decking me would be better than seeing him like this. He was ashamed and angry, two things I didn’t know him to deal with well. I said uneasily, “Dick, none of us could have known for sure. Not even me.”

 

“But you didn’t give up on him,” He said, putting his back to me and letting my hand fall. “You told us that if you could be alive under his nose, it would be so much easier for him to pull off the same trick. And that’s what it feels like. A trick.”

 

“Don’t do that,” My brows knitted. “He did it to protect the family. You and I both knew about Knightfall - you, me, and Barbara. We knew what it would look like, and that it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

 

“After everything that he’d dealt with that night…” Dick trailed off, and it wasn’t rocket science to figure out that Bruce had been through hell...partially because of me. No one would’ve put it past him to end it all. Except Bruce doesn’t give up that easily...And believe me, that’s something to say….coming from me.

 

“Alfred went too because he didn’t want Bruce to be alone.” That was a guess. But it was most likely true. Alfred raised him, and he’d want to be there through any difficult decision Bruce’s had to make.

 

“We’re alone too!” He snapped, glaring back at me with icy blue eyes. “We don’t know what that card means, we don’t know if Falcone will kill you before you kill him, we don’t know if Joker is back or not, we don’t know-”

 

I took his shoulders in both of my hands and shook him a bit. “Dick, listen to me and listen good:  _we will figure this out._ We will go to the coordinates he gave us, find out if that means anything, and if Joker comes back tomorrow or in five years, you and me will remind him that Gotham is protected. You and me, Tim and Babs. We’re all that’s left of Bruce’s legacy. And I’ll be damned if we freak out because ‘Dad’s not around anymore and someone gets hurt.”

 

We stared at each other for a long while. After that while, he nodded and sniffed a little. His lips curled upwards a bit. “...Thanks. I needed that.”

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

I patted his shoulder, finishing off the water bottle and heading up the stairs to my desk. I wrote down the number ‘thirty-four’ on the notepad stuck to the wall with a knife, taking the lighter in my shorts pocket and lighting up a smoke from the pack on the keyboard. Dick bristled, but I ignored him. I was trying to quit, I really was.

 

I entered my coordinates into the GPS signal tracker that I used for my tracker bullets. Took a bit to process, though. Dick leaned against my desk with his arms crossed, waiting for my borderline obsolete computer to work.

 

“Where did you go after you left Tim and me that night?” He asked gently, though I could tell this question didn’t have anything to do with actual curiosity. He’s fishing. He picked up our slips of paper, studying them.

 

“Out.”

 

He made an indifferent noise in his throat. He wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t push the envelope. He squinted at the papers, before setting them down on the desk next to each other. “Jason, look at this...The isolated words.”

 

I tore my eyes away from the screen, humoring him and glancing at the words. I saw what he meant, the words forming a sentence when the edges overlap. I felt nauseous, and suppressed the bile rising in my throat as well as I could. I forced the words out of my mouth. “‘The joke...is back?’”

 

“Yeah…” His ice-blue eyes were boring a hole into my face, watching me. “Bruce is telling us that he’s real. That the card means he's back…”

 

“But the coordinates are different. If they fit together, why would he send us separate coordinates to two different places?” I had a headache starting up behind my sinuses, growing from there to right behind my eyes.

 

“He knew we’d work together.”

 

“What?”

 

Dick’s eyes brightened. “He knew that you and me would compare notes, but would ultimately want to go it alone.” He laughed humorlessly. “More things change...the more they stay the same. He gave us jobs to do.”

 

A beeping on my computer brought my focus back. My coordinates led to...Wayne Tower? Oh, wait. I got it. Bruce wanted me to have the BatMobile. Sorry, old man. But that deathtrap was torn apart so bad that even with what we didn’t sell to Queen, it won’t beat The Missus.

 

“Looks like I’m paying Lucius a visit,” I groaned, before Dick’s coordinates came in. “And you’re…”

 

I looked to Dick suddenly, searching his blank face. It was my turn to watch him drain of color. I was expecting him to...I don’t know. Get angry, throw something, take offense...all of the above. He may not be a generally angry dude, but where Bruce was sending him might not have been the best move.

 

I knew the old man was a sore subject for Dick, especially when it came to why he left Bruce and Alfred, quit being Robin. I never pushed. It wasn’t my business; just like what I really did in those displaced years between my ‘death’ and six months ago wasn’t any of his business. But I knew Bruce brought out an anger and frustration in Dick that Boy Wonder number one never knew how to handle.

 

“He’s sending me home,” Dick said, more to break the silence than anything else. “To Wayne Manor.”

 

Turning away from me, he walked out of the room and I heard him start to descend downstairs. I tapped the ash of my cigarette onto the desk ashtray and moved to follow him. I was about halfway down the stairs when the music filled up the stairwell. I found him in his Pontiac in the fire engine bay beside my tank, his forehead pressing against the wheel and his arms ahead on the dash.

 

Pearl Jam was playing on his radio. Usually, he drifted towards mainstream pop but one thing he and I both appreciated was 90s jams. Without saying a word, I slid into his passenger seat and reclined it the whole way back. For a while, he sat in the driver’s seat hunched over like that and I smoked, blowing through a couple of cigarettes in that time.

 

I thought about what Dick’s real apprehension at revisiting Wayne Manor was really about. Did it fall more with the fact that the Manor was in ruins and abandoned? Or that it was Bruce’s, and his desperate pursuit to be a self-made man out of Batman’s shadow was in the exactly opposite direction of the Manor? I wished I could tell him that it wasn’t going to work. I idly ran my thumb over the cigarette filter…

 

Even when I became Arkham Knight, I might as well have been holding a sign above my head with my name in neon lights. My head was chaos and rage, so I created an army to surround myself with order and used it to stomp my foot on Gotham’s throat. I wanted to destroy Batman, so I wore a military-inspired batsuit with matching ears and sidekicks. I kidnapped Barbara for leverage. Who else would know to take her in order to cripple the technological web that Bruce threw over Gotham? I attacked Panessa Studios with drones, a WayneProject. I wanted Bruce, Gotham,  _everyone_  to know the fear I felt every day for over a year with the Joker. So I teamed up with Scarecrow. And, in line with everything else about me, I failed my mission in epic fashion.

 

I shook my head. I haven’t learned a damn thing.

 

Take a look at Dick. The inspiration for his alter ego might’ve been Kryptonian, but the rest is Bruce. I’ll give him this, though: Dick Grayson had more sunshine in his pinkie finger than Bruce had in his whole body. Little kids? They don’t flinch back when Nightwing comes to rescue them, they run at him like he’s Santa or something. Dick can smile for them and mean it. I suppose it was only natural for him to join the police force in Bludhaven. Honestly, Gordon should be giving his job to Dick if he runs for mayor. Dick’s a good person, at his core.

I opened up the car door to stub out the last smoke, and decided I might as well say something. I shut the radio off. He didn't seem to notice. I spoke, the words uneasy and not at all confident. "Look, Dick. You're my brother and a grown man, but I'm not gonna let you sit here and mope if I can help it. I'm the moody one, remember?" I sighed. "If you don't want to go to the Manor alone, I get it. I'll go with you."

 

"No." He sat back, running his fingers through his hair. "You're right. I shouldn't mope. I should just...get it over with instead of being mad at Bruce about leaving it to me in the first place. Leaving dealing with the Joker to us."

 

"Maybe he's finally passing the torch..." I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the time, before getting out of the Pontiac. "Let's get this done. I'm going to go change and head to Wayne Tower in five."

 

"Take your time," He said, "I'll give you a ride on my way to the Manor." I put my back to him, strolling over to the steps up to my room, and had my foot braced against the first step when I heard him say behind me, "Hey Jay?"

 

I glanced over my shoulder at him. "Yeah?"

 

"I realize this is a bit late...but I'm glad you came back."

 

I fought a smile and continued up the stairwell.


	16. Teaching Your Shadows to Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason ventures to his coordinates all the way to Wayne Tower, and unearths some memories that he didn't leave buried in hate in Arkham Asylum.

 

**WAYNE TOWER**

 

There was a TV in the elevator that rotated between the words “progress”, “technology” and “innovation” every few seconds;it was mostly black apart from the white letters.

 

In the blackness, I could see the parts of myself I never wanted.

 

I looked presentable by Alfred’s definition, at least. A pair of dark wash jeans that didn’t have rips in them and weren’t sanded into the knees, along with a lintless black button-down that made my pale skin whiter. Clean shoes that I’d scrubbed blood from after the fiasco at Penguin’s. Above the collar, there was a thick scar that ran up along a muscle that stuck out when I turned my head. Absentmindedly, I traced it with a fingertip as the elevator climbed. The first few buttons of my shirt were undone, and there, in the hollow in the center of my collarbone, more scars. The raised skin was marred...my fingers itched to do up the buttons, but this was another one of the many things I promised myself I would quit. I would quit smoking. I would quit fighting the family. I would quit trying to run from my scars.

 

The elevator dinged, but when I checked the number, it wasn’t to the office yet. My brow furrowed, swearing bitterly  under my breath that I hadn't brought my gun. I had a six-inch knife strapped to my ankle and that was it. I was about to whip it out when the doors opened, and a mousy little lady wobbled in, nearly falling over once she came in. On reflex alone, I flashed out a hand and held her by the elbow to keep her from wiping out.

 

She stared up at me with wide doe eyes, flushing behind her blue-rimmed glasses. She dressed professional enough and smelled faintly like citrus. "Thanks."

 

I grunted as means of a 'you're welcome', and did my best to ignore her tuneless humming as the elevator moved again. It got annoying after a few floors, so I decided to go for small talk to make it stop. "First day?"

 

"Yeah," She said sheepishly, and in the corner of my eye, I saw hers scan over me appreciatively. "I'm Mr. Wong's assistant." I had no clue who that was, but nodded anyway. "How about you?"

 

"Visiting an old friend," I said, hoping this hunk of metal would take a hint and get a move on.

 

"I see..." She said, before pointing out, "You're going up to Mr. Fox's office."

 

"Mmhmm."

 

I started to sweat, in my hands especially. I shook my head at myself. I’m the Red Hood. I’ve killed lots of people, besieged a city and nearly offed Batman. I should not be sweating because I’m alone in an elevator with a girl who might have just checked me out. The elevator was closing in on her floor, time was running out. If I was ever going to do this, I needed to do it-

 

_Ding!_

 

The doors opened, I tried to say something but all that came out was a breathless wheeze not loud enough for her to hear. She smiled at me as she left. When she waved goodbye, I spied a ring on her left hand I should’ve noticed earlier. “Have a good day!”

 

I deflated, and once the doors closed, I rubbed a palm over my eye. "You too."

 

I leaned back to the wall, tilting my head to rest against it. Jesus. All Penguin or Two-Face needed to bring me down is a girl and an enclosed space. I cracked a stupid smile and let out a laugh to release tension. How the hell does Dick do it?

 

I got out on the office floor to a small lobby. The secretary's desk was on the righthand side, and she didn't look up until I was in front of her. She was a plainer girl, with a smile that never reached her eyes. "How can I help you, sir?"

 

"I'm here to see Fox."

 

"Name?" She pulled a binder closer to herself and lifted the front side to peek at the papers underneath. She fiddled with her earring with the other hand.

 

"J. Todd.”

 

She nodded, picking up a pen and crossing out something on the papers. She shot me that practiced smile again, gesturing to the door. “He’s expecting you.”

 

“How nice of him,” I muttered as I walked to the door, holding the handle for a second before entering his office.

 

It was smaller than I remembered. A bar on the left side had been turned into bookshelves that jut out from the wall, but they weren’t nearly as full as Abigail Byron’s. Some held small sculptures, others held bottles of wine and towards the window, a harp of all things sat somewhat covered in dust. The desk wasn’t in the center of the room anymore, but opposite the bookshelves to the right. Directly in front of me was a large table with a miniature model of Gotham City on it. Lucius Fox stood behind this table, bent over with his hands braced against the edge of the model with his fingers woven through the trees of tiny Sheldon Park, and Wonder Tower was right by his thumb. His coat was draped over Pioneer’s Bridge, and as he straightened to greet me, he rolled up the sleeves of his white business shirt.

 

“Well, what a surprise,” He said with that same friendly warmth I remembered, rounding the table as I came up to him warily. “Jason Todd, the boy who wanted his own WayneTech tank at fifteen.”

 

That got me. I cracked a grin, and shook his hand when he offered it. “It’s been a long time, Lucius.”

 

When I’d returned to the family, Barbara sent a file to Lucius and other allies that might as well have been a briefing to “Operation: Don’t Scare Jason Away.” It was basically a run-down of my tenure as Arkham Knight...that the Knight was me. Knowing Lucius, I doubted he would hold too much of a grudge. But this was the first time I’ve seen him in years, though...And I knew, better than most, that one-eighties can happen to anyone at any time for any reason.

 

“It has,” Lucius surveyed me the way an old farmer might look at a piece of land and think about how it’s changed over the years. How the land has grown and flourished...or tried to kill the farmer, in my case. “You’ve become a strapping young man. Strong, driven...I’ve followed your exploits in the news.”

 

I raised an eyebrow and my shoulders tensed involuntarily. “Not going to give me a lecture, are you?”

 

“Not at all,” He removed his glasses, and looked down at the lenses with a pensive face. “When I first came to Wayne Enterprises, one of Falcone’s lackeys approached me after a  meeting and asked me which side I stood on: the side of just about every other businessman in Gotham, where success was made on the backs of others under your foot, or the way Thomas and Martha Wayne did it, through honest work and ideals.”

 

“And?” I crossed my arms.

 

Lucius’ eyes wrinkled at the outer corners. “I didn’t answer him. Because if my purpose wasn’t clear when I gave my pitch, his reasons for asking me that question were not business-related and - by extension - not worth my time to dwell upon. The message here is that what you did was by no means advisable, but I know that you would not take a man’s eye out without a good reason. So, I will not dwell upon the morality of it. You are one of Bruce Wayne’s sons, and therefore, I am at your service.” He put his glasses back on. “Now then, what brings you to me?”

 

I didn’t have the nerve to tell him how much I appreciated that. I felt a weird kind of relief that almost nothing had changed between us, at least. Maybe he did it because he predicted that it would take everyone else on the ‘team’ longer to forgive me.

 

I slipped my hand into my pocket and gave him the torn piece of newspaper with the coordinates on it. “The old man sent this to me, with coordinates for Wayne Tower.” The knowing look on his face told me everything. “You’ve known all this time?”

 

“When he informed me of what all of Gotham now knew, I had said that if needed anything...that I would be happy to do it for him,” He walked to his bookshelves, and I stayed where I was, watching him. “He contacted me about a month after he’d disappeared, and asked me to hang onto something until you came for it...Come here.”

 

I joined him by the shelves, and he pointed to a book. “Place your pointer finger on the spine.”

 

My mouth went dry when I read the title.  _This Side of Paradise_ , by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Bruce read me this book once when I’d gotten sick after working myself for a week straight without much sleep. I only promised him and Alfred I would rest if they stayed with me. The old man thought I’d like this book, and after he’d finished reading it to me and I recovered, I re-read it four times. The main protagonist, Amory...was in many ways the exact opposite of me. I tried not to relive those hours of listening to Bruce read to me, and did as Lucius asked.

 

The bindings were cold to the touch, like no one has read it for a while. But when the letters on the bindings lit up when I touched them, I realized that it wasn’t a book at all. Something behind the shelves shifted, and the book sunk into the wall when I pulled my finger away. The entire shelf of books was withdrawing into the wall, then slid to the right. In its place was a safe embedded there, with a keypad.

 

“The coordinates are also the combination, as per his request,” He entered the numbers and then stepped away dutifully. He moved away, towards his desk. Giving me privacy, I guessed.

 

I hazarded a breath through my nose, where the tight set of my jaw wouldn’t hitch it. Okay, Bruce. Let’s see what was so important that you couldn’t tell me yourself. I opened it, revealing what I thought I would never see again. I reached in with both hands and closed my fingers around the uniform. Oh my God, the  _smell_...I’d forgotten how good it smelled. Like evergreen tree needles and spearmint, Alfred’s laundry detergent. You spend over a year in the same outfit caked in blood, sweat and dirt...you forget how it smelled before it happened.

 

My thumb ran over the ‘R’ on the chest. My throat got thick fast, like candlewax was coating it. It’s been too long...I’ve grown too tired of doing the antiquated moral song and dance. Seeing this wasn’t enough to make me want to be Robin again, not by a long shot. But it was enough to bring back the kind of memories you wished you could relive, even for just a moment. Alfred helping me into Dick’s old costume, deciding that the leotard just wasn’t working for me and together, we designed a new uniform on looseleaf paper. The first time I jumped off a rooftop with Bruce in it, how the wind felt in my hair. The first time I saved a kid in the costume, how his eyes lit up when he saw it was Robin rescuing him. I covered my mouth with my hand, biting my lip beneath it.

 

Under the uniform were two unmarked envelopes. One was a small letter envelope, the other a bigger orange one. I tucked the uniform under my arm, and plucked the envelopes from there. The safe was empty now. I glanced over my shoulder. Lucius had left sometime in there, I hadn’t noticed. I was alone now.

 

I strode to the small chess table and armchairs on the other side of the room in front of the large ceiling-to-floor window. I practically collapsed into the only vaguely comfortable chair, laying the uniform over my lap and starting on the two envelopes. I squeezed the orange envelope around the middle first. Two things about the size of a deck of cards and as thick were pushed in there, barely kept in there by the butterfly clasp at the top. I undid the clasp, and held it open-side down. Two string-tied stacks of folded up pages of paper fell out, along with a note.

 

I read the note first, my chest tightening at the too-familiar handwriting.

 

_Master Jason,_

 

_I began to write these after we lost you. I believed that if I could put my heart and worries on a page, only then would I be able to confront it. Many of these letters detail Master Bruce’s healing process, but I do not pass these on to you to give you proof that he did mourn. I pass these on to you in the hopes that, Heaven forbid, you lose someone as important to you as you were to Master Bruce...you learn the lesson that took me decades to learn and eventually teach: that though the departed are gone, the greatest tribute you can make to their memory is sharing the same sort of happiness you had with them._

 

_Jason, your path may not have revealed itself to you in the ways Master Bruce and I would have hoped, but we will never apologize for giving a home to a boy who had seen too much, too early in his life - and loving him. For your spirit, your compassion, and your fire._

 

I was  _not_ crying by this part in the letter. My allergies were kicking in this time of year and I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand and continued.

 

_I hope you receive all the best in life._

 

_Yours,_

_Alfred Pennyworth_

 

Shaking so bad it took me three tries to get the note and the stacks of letters back into the envelope, I told myself I had to keep it together until after I’d seen inside the second one. I bent over, unsheathing the knife at my ankle and sliding the blade under the lip of the smaller letter envelope, cutting the thing open. I sniffed, glad that no one was here to see what a damned mess I was.

 

There was another page inside, and when I unfolded it, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. First Alfred, now the old man himself was writing me. This was unlike him…Should I read this now? Will it tell me something I really didn’t want to hear...or know? Part of me wanted to burn it and never read it. Another part...felt I owed it to Bruce to read this. It was longer than Alfred’s, I probably could read it inside of a couple of minutes. Fine. Almost reluctantly, I started reading.

 

_Jason,_

 

_I have tried to write this many times, wanting to say the same thing but with no clue of how to say it. Alfred finds it ironic that I can defuse a bomb in seconds but it takes me weeks to write a letter to my son. Sometimes I think that I had no right to take you in and turn you into my soldier. Sometimes I think I should have never given you the means to exact your vengeance upon the world. That was before I took a hard look in the mirror. It wasn’t that I had given you a dangerous weapon and stupidly expected you not to use it in the wrong way for the right reasons. My failure had nothing to do with the tools I gave you, underestimating your anger, or that I took you off the streets in the first place._

 

_I never regretted taking you off the streets, Jason. I never regretted anything I gave you because you deserved everything and more. You deserved a good home and people that love you. I just wish I had told you how much. This does not make it right in the slightest, I know. But I am sorry beyond what I can say that I did not tell you at every opportunity I had before I lost you. That I didn't tell you to be careful more often, that I noticed you smoking again when you thought I didn't pay attention, and that you were braver than any of us could ever be._

 

_It always amazed me that many have to be conditioned for months to do the brave thing, and you do it without hesitation. My mistake is that I never told you that there are times when you don't have to be brave. Men like us have the most difficult time accepting help from others because we believe in enduring great pain so the innocent never have to._

 

_Gotham City relies on you, Jason. But no man is an island. I learned this too late, and I hope you never have to pay for it like I did. The family is there for you, as it always has and always shall be. And so am I. You must all be the Batman._

 

_I wish you more than luck._

 

_\- Bruce_

 

When I finished reading, the paper fell from my fingers into my lap just before a tear followed suit. It dropped right by his name. I heard the office door opening again, and I reeled myself back in, swiping my fingers over my cheeks quickly. I gathered everything up and wrapped the envelopes in my old yellow cape, trapping it under my arm. I needed to get a grip.

 

Lucius came back in, eyeing my face and the uniform thoughtfully. He didn't comment on that, but asked, "A box, perhaps?"

 

"That'd be great," I said shakily, clearing my throat of imaginary candlewax.

 

When he returned with a box big enough to carry my grief and guilt in, I left Wayne Tower.

 

I rode the subway back to Old Gotham in a daze. Walking to the fire station, a man dressed in a black ski mask stepped out from the shadows waggling a knife at me and belching his alcoholism in between the breaths he used to demand my wallet.

 

He didn't scream when I broke his leg in the nearby alley, didn't try to beg when I called Gordon to get this trash off the streets of my city. I ran off after that straight home, and once I was out of the monkey suit and into some lounge pants...I popped open a beer and spent all night reading every single one of Alfred's letters. The more I read, the closer I felt to them again...the more I wished I could play cards with Bruce and bake things with Alfred again.

 

But this was the next best thing. And no matter how angry I could be at both of them for leaving me, leaving the family...Reading the letters with the cape thrown over my legs like a blanket...was as close to home that I'd felt in years.


	17. Teaching Your Shadows to Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick Grayson follows his coordinates to the ruins of Wayne Manor, and hopes that what he thinks he'll find is far from the truth.

Dick sighed as he stood behind his car door, hesitating before he shut it. Looking upon the ruins of Wayne Manor was as painful as he expected it to be. The yellow tape around the borders insulted him as his ice-blue eyes fell on them.The fist in his chest clenching everything together, the air that tasted of grief and Dick found himself feeling profoundly unwelcome. He secured the messenger bag over his shoulder tighter.

 

"Honey...I'm home."

 

The lawn was overgrown, but without rubble. Dick strongly suspected that Bruce had rigged the charges so that the Manor would collapse perfectly within its own perimeters, like how condemned buildings were demolished. Some of the outer walls were somewhat intact, if blackened, and a heavy stench of charcoal and ash hung heavy in the air like lead spiderwebs. He walked briskly up the alabaster steps stained gray, through the opening made between two sections of standing wall jagged and burned to a crisp. Another of the surviving features of the mansion was the grand staircase, where Dick would come down for breakfast each morning by sliding down the banister like Tarzan on a tree branch, jumped into a frontflip and sticking the landing. He remembered how Alfred would say "bravo, sir!" and clap sometimes, how his nine-year-old self would eat up the applause and bow for his audience of one.

 

Dick let that prick up a half-smile on his face. He idly strolled through the long corridor to the right...or at least what used to be the corridor to the main parlor. He vaulted himself with ease over a large charred beam in the way, but when his feet hit the burnt flooring, he heard a clinking like broken glass. He looked down. Under his foot was a picture frame covered in soot. Dick picked it up and swiped the soot off with the edge of his sleeve. "Well, if it isn't Jaybird."

 

In the picture, a fourteen or fifteen - year-old Jason was sweaty and dirty in a cap and mitt, about to catch a baseball thrown from who could only be Bruce with the black hair and scars peeking out from the black muscle shirt. Bruce faced away from the camera, but Dick could see enough of his face to know he was grinning. He removed the photo from the frame, folded it in half and pocketed it. He got to the parlor at last, and found that the grandfather clock he needed to be untouched, the bookshelves behind it still set into the wall.

 

Dick shut his eyes tight, told himself that this was probably where Bruce wanted him to go. He knew he would be playing into the idea that Bruce had bestowed upon him the day he became Robin. The very one he had left Gotham running away from. He just hoped that he was wrong. Slowly, he opened his eyes again and reluctantly lifted a hand to the grandfather clock’s aged face. He moved the little hand from the three to the ten, and the big hand to forty-seven. The time that Thomas and Martha Wayne died. There was a creaking and then a rumbling in the wall, as if Wayne Manor itself was being disturbed from a six-month-long slumber to greet one of it’s favored sons. The prodigal son.

 

The section of bookshelf beside the clock sunk back and then swung inwards like a door. Dick slinked through the narrow opening, and the shelving closed behind him. The first thing he heard was the ever-present chittering of the colonies of bats that roamed through the caves. The sound reminded Dick of rain on a tin roof, something he remembered distinctly from his childhood and always relaxed at hearing. Even when everything else about this place put him on edge, the BatCave was oddly calming to him when he came alone. The stone steps down to the lift was barely lit, so Dick retrieved a glowstick from his bag and bent it in half. There was a crackling noise, then blue light illuminated the short walkway. He got into the lift and pressed the button, glancing around expectantly. When nothing happened, he looked upwards at the small opening where the caves naturally sighed into the grounds - the forest that hugged the side of Wayne Manor.

 

He rolled his eyes as he dug around in his bag again, this time for the explosive gel he’d snatched at the equipment floor at the Clocktower. Dick had a feeling that this’d come in handy; he drew a large smiley face in gel on the floor with a smirk on his face, a dimple forming in his cheek the longer he held it. He stepped back just outside the elevator, admiring his handiwork. “That may be the happiest thing in this place.”

 

He raised his hand and hit the button, shielding his face with his other arm. The loud bang made him wish he’d covered his ears as well. He winced against the ringing in his head. Dick saw the now gaping hole in the metal grate of the lift's floor, taking out his grapple gun and attaching it to the grate. Glowstick in one hand, grappler in the other. He remembered one of the first things his father ever taught him: "Breathe, son. And then fall."

 

He heard the chittering grow louder and closed his eyes, just as the startled bats roared up the lift towards the opening above. He inhaled through his nose and with his exhale, he dropped himself through the hole. The bats all around him, he opened his eyes again and felt himself entirely without fear.

 

Dick was intimate with the nature of falling. He had fallen nearly all his life - for beautifully redheaded women, for Bludhaven's twinkling mischief around every rooftop, for the fleeting moments of reward this lifestyle granted him. Like when the child hostage runs from his arms to her mother and the mother with tears in her eyes, gathers her daughter up and then pulls Dick almost painfully close into a hug. Like the respectful nods from police officers. And every single one of night's kisses upon his face as he soars through the air without wings.

 

He slowed his descent as he neared the ground level of the BatCave, gauging his distance on pure memory. His shoes hit the rock with a smack, and he straightened himself, leaving the grapple gun on the ground there so he could leave the way he came. He held his glowstick high like a blue torch to the wall, pressing his palm flat against a panel bolted to the wall. The panel lit up as it scanned his hand.

 

" _Voice print authorization."_ Said a cool female voice from higher up on the wall, where there was a speaker in the darkness.

"Richard John Grayson," Dick said in reply.

 

He heard the familiar whirring of the BatCave coming to life, a sound he sometimes likened to a computer yawning. The voice spoke again, " _Voice print authorization accepted. Welcome, Nightwing."_

 

"Thanks for having me," Dick muttered, strolling down the metal stairs from the lift shaft to the main cave itself where the lights had just come on. A few more bats flew by him but he didn't much notice.

 

A strange kind of relief nestled itself in his stomach as he saw that the explosion above ground hadn't affected the cave. He guessed that the BatComputer was too useful a tool to Bruce and the family to be worth destroying. Probably why the lift didn't work, now that he thought about it. If the elevator doesn't work and any means of removing it had hordes of bats screaming to say hi, not many people would be persistent enough to continue.

 

As he got to the platform where the gigantic monitor of the BatComputer resided, he saw a scanning beam peek out from above a smaller screen on the left and wash over him as he settled himself into the big man's chair. The monitor ahead flicked on as he did, immediately drawing his eye and then widening them to the blue eyes that met his. The ancient look in the middle-aged face, the regal black eyebrows, sharp cheekbones and the downturned line of his lips that made every facial expression a bit sadder...Dick’s gasp had him grasping at the arms of his chair for support.

 

“Bruce?”

 

“ _If you’re watching this, Dick_ ,” Bruce said on the monitor, “ _It means you’ve received the coordinates I sent to you and Jason. Do not worry about me or Alfred. We are safe. But the reason for this...is that he's back."_ Bruce's eyes darkened. " _My reason for bringing you here is to present you with information that I could never give Jason. The BatComputer is the only place where my master file on the Joker can be accessed. All the information I have collected, from our first battle over the reservoir till now, is compiled in that file. The final piece was added minutes ago."_ He paused, and Dick could see the scars on his shoulders between his neck and the straps of his black muscle shirt.

 

" _Jason must never know it exists,"_ Bruce insisted, and rubbed his fingers to his forehead along the creases. " _Dick, I was lucky...the Joker underestimated my determination to walk away without a body count, and it cost him his cure I had spent the night fighting to get."_ Dick couldn't help thinking about how exhausted he looked. " _I have wanted to kill him for some time, but I knew that even after all he'd taken away from me and Gotham...I could never do it. Part of me thinks that's why it went on for so long. It was either I kill him and become him or I perpetuate the trail of destruction he left behind him.”_

 

_This time, I will not be making that call. It’s up to you and the family to bring him in and do it the right way... But if Jason gets his hands on the file, it won’t be about the mission anymore. It will be about revenge and destruction. Gotham and the family will become potential collateral damage.”_

 

Dick’s eyebrows knitted. Why? Jason was just a punk kid, strung up and branded, tortured for months by the Joker _for Bruce!_ Dick didn’t buy it. He spent a while earning Jay’s trust. He wasn’t going to throw that in jeopardy just for some file that wasn’t going to tell him anything he didn’t already know.

 

“ _He is my son,”_ Bruce’s mouth downturned, and looked very much like he did right after Jason disappeared. “ _But he is willing to do exactly what I can’t. He believes in his convictions, his vengeance. Just as I believed in mine when I was a child. I did not have the chance to bring the man who murdered my parents to justice.”_

 

Dick had his. Dick and Bruce invested two years in bringing down Tony Zucco for what he had done to sabotage the wires that held everything Dick Grayson cared about in the air.

 

“ _Jason gets the opportunity to kill the Joker, he will do it, Dick.”_ Bruce pushed a scarred hand through his slicked-back black hair. “ _Tell Tim, tell Barbara, and have them swear to secrecy...but if Jason asks, tell him that you found the Batwing. It’s in the hangar. Tell him about the note you’ll find on the seat where I ask you to become Batman. Whether you accept or refuse it is your business. But he’ll believe you…”_

 

And then Bruce said the words Dick thought were absolutely impossible.

 

“ _If Jason learns the Joker’s name, it’s over._ ”

 

“...what?” Dick breathed, eyes wide.

 

“ _If he finds this place and tries to access the BatComputer, it will send the file to me automatically...all you need to do to get it back again is say my full name for voice authorization when you enter._ ” Bruce sighed. “ _I know you’ll bring this home for us, Dick. All of us...because you’re better than I ever was._ ”

 

The monitor went black again for a moment, and then lit up, the file opening. Dick was hyperventilating, struggling to process what he was seeing now and what he had just heard.


	18. Oh Mother, Tell Your Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dick and Jason are going through Bruce's closet, Tim Drake is meeting with the Commissioner to discuss...sensitive family matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh mother, tell your children
> 
> Not to do what I have done
> 
> Spend your lives in sin and misery
> 
> In the House of the Rising Sun”
> 
> Bob Dylan, “House of the Rising Sun”

 

“Son, are you going to come out of the shadows or do I have to whistle for you?”

Tim’s face remained steely as he did as the man asked and came out from the shadow of the signal. He didn’t know what to expect, really. The symbol shining like that for the first time in six months...a wild kind of hope hit like an arrow through Robin’s chest that maybe his mentor had returned. But then the cold logic that littered his mind like lead confetti settled in. When Batman wanted your attention, he never did it conventionally. But when he did, he did so for one man.

Jim Gordon turned around slowly, returning his lighter to his pocket and taking in his first drag of the smoke he lit waiting for Tim to arrive. His hair had recently been re-dyed, Robin observed; there was a small patch of dye that hadn’t washed off near Gordon’s temple.The trench coat he wore was well-used but not well-loved. A hole in the elbow hadn’t been patched, but Tim could tell even at this distance that this coat had years of experience under the badge.

“Commissioner.” Tim kept the hood on his uniform up, his cape that brushed the back of his calves shrouded around him still like a protective veil that separated him from the humid pre-summer air. It’s been a long time since that awkward boat ride away from Arkham Island while Tim was bleeding from a gunshot wound, sitting next to the man who had no idea Robin had been running around crusading with his daughter for years.

Gordon stared at Tim for a minute so intently he might have been staring right through him. “I'll make this quick. I want to discuss the other guy. The guy under the red hood.”

Tim felt his stomach fall between his feet, and something icy take its place. “You’re wondering if we can trust him and want my input.”

“Yeah,” Gordon admitted, the smoke from his cigarette blowing past him with the summer wind above the GCPD. He had that distinctly ‘stern father’ air about him right now, as if Tim was auditioning for the chance to date his daughter. Not that he’d mind if that were the case... “Look, Barbara told me about what he did when Crane had her...but I want to know what you think.”

“He’s made mistakes, but his mission is the same as ours,” Tim said steadily, watching Gordon’s eyes and his hands. “I used to think his way was the easy way out. Well, part of me still thinks that way about him. The killing of criminals. But I know that he does it because he’s different from us. What’s hard for you and me to do is what he’s willing to do to keep our hands clean. He considers himself separate from us because we’re the incorruptible good guys.” Tim let the smile filter through this time. “Can you imagine what he’d be capable of if he realized he’s one too? Maybe not incorruptible...but he had a chance once to get rid of me. And he chose not to. That means something to me.”

Gordon nodded with the conversation, but Tim sensed something was underlying this meeting. Something the Commissioner just wasn’t telling him. Jim talked through smoke, “Remember that hostage situation he did? Perp asked for him and he showed up, walked out with all the kids inside of six minutes. I told him that I was sorry I doubted him and held out my hand. You know what he did?” The corner of his moustache quirked up with the smirk. “He gave me money and told me to get the kids some ice cream. When I hinted that ‘hero’ might not be a bad thing on him, I meant it. But he listed the perp’s injuries and left.”

“Sounds like him.” Tim crossed his arms, and his suspicion was too heavy to ignore. “Commissioner, what’s this about?”

“I need you to send a message to him,” Gordon said, his voice gruff. “Tell him that I want to speak with him about his feud with the Don. He’s not the only one who wants Falcone behind bars.”

“He doesn’t want him behind bars, Commissioner,” Tim moved to stand in front of the signal, letting the heat from it warm his back. “Red Hood never wants the crooks behind bars. He wants them gone. As in dead.”

“Which is why I need to talk with him sooner rather than later,” Jim insisted, stubbing out his cigarette. “Five minutes. All I ask.”

“I’m not exactly his best friend,” Tim’s shoulders drooped. “I can ask Nightwing to-”

"Nightwing has enough on his plate with eyewitness reports sighting him in Bludhaven and Gotham." Jim cut him off, and Tim could see from how his hands were clenched in his coat pockets that he was frustrated. “Or I could have asked Barbara. But I trust  _you_ . Can you do that or not, Robin?”

The two looked at each other for about a minute. Tim respected Gordon, he always has. Some called the Commissioner the last good man in Gotham, that when inevitably everything goes right to hell and the city is on the brink of utter destruction...it will be James Gordon that pulls it back out.

What Gordon knew of  _this_ Robin was limited. He knew that this was most likely Bruce Wayne’s third ward Tim Drake, the picture of the perfect Gotham youth that wasn’t involved with drugs or gang activity. But he didn’t care about what Robin was outside of the uniform; what he did inside it was what mattered to the Commissioner. Same went for Bruce Wayne, or Dick Grayson...and he had a hunch about who Red Hood was, even if the police records said otherwise. Gordon respected that nyctophilic bunch of misfits more than most of the cops he knew...but he was very clear about what side of the law they were on. And that’s why he needed them.

“Fine,” Robin said at last, pressing a button on his gauntlet behind his back, “I’ll do it.”

Gordon’s phone started beeping, the Commissioner glancing down as he fished it from his pocket and answered it, “This is Gordon.” But there was no one on the line. He sighed, before he saw that the silhouette in front of the signal was gone. He shoved his phone back into his coat.

“Apple never falls far, does it?"

……………………………………………………………………………..

**MEANWHILE.**

The bones in the guy’s neck made an oh-so-satisfying snap as they broke, and I slunk back into my crouch as he fell to the floor, grinning beneath my mask. I whispered as I stepped around the body. “‘Scuse me, pardon me. Hood comin’ through.”

Every nerve in my body tensed when I heard loud zapping noises, gunfire and... _laughing?_  I rushed over to the open door a few feet ahead of me, and peeked out into the Merchant’s bank lobby. Three dudes were on the catwalk, unconscious and two on the lower level with broken necks. But I wasn’t paying attention to them. We’ve got a saying in Gotham: always look up. I didn’t get much of a look, a couple of mobsters with guns went by my door on their way to the catwalk and I had to lean back to avoid detection. Once they passed, I slipped out and grappled onto the nearest wolf-shaped gargoyle well above them.

I glared at the other gargoyles, narrowing my eyes as I saw Nightwing returning his escrima sticks to their holsters on his back. He grinned at me and saluted. I rewarded him with the finger. He held in his earpiece, and I heard his voice through my mask.

“You want these two or can I take one?” He pointed down at the two schmucks tending to the bodies on the catwalk between us. They were facing my gargoyle, but I was too far up, too entrenched in shadow for them to see me.

I considered taking them myself, but shrugged anyway. I can share my fun. "Have at it."

I straddled the gargoyle like I was riding the giant wolf carved into the stone, and watched as Dick stood on his wolf's head...and then dove through the air, catching the ledge of the catwalk seemingly by his fingertips. I never got tired of watching the last Grayson fly.

The two thugs were facing away from him and continued to be oblivious as he climbed up over the railing. I shook my head. Dick paused and waved at me, before grabbing both of their heads and slamming them together. They slumped to the floor in a heap. I anchored the hook of my grapple gun in my gargoyle and flipped over the side, lowering myself onto the upper level. I released the hook and joined Dick on the catwalk.

“Wanna tell me why you dropped by?” Once I got close, I used some zip ties from my jacket and secured the crooks to the railing. I don’t use them often, hence why I had loads of them. Then again, I don’t leave criminals alive often. But I made an exception since Dick showed up.

“I got word from Oracle,” He replied, leaning against the banister. His eyes were bluer against the black of his mask. “Remember that tracker bullet you shot into Bane?”

I made a noise in my throat as means of ‘yeah, what about it?’.

“She’s been looking after it, and it hasn’t left Peña Duro in weeks,” Dick said, “Until an hour ago. He’s headed northwest, south of Mexico City. Oracle also hacked his flight plan. He’s going right for...are you ready?” He shuddered as he spoke the name. “The Island of the Dolls.”

“Dolls?” I hated creepy-ass dolls. Hence why Professor Pyg would always be a target I’d shove Tim or Dick’s way.

Dick nodded. “I had her look up what else was there apart from a ghost story, she’s still working on it. But I wanted to let you know.”

I frowned. If Bane was travelling, he likely took Harley with him. A trade maybe? But who wanted Harley besides Joker? And what’s Bane getting in return? I didn’t like it.

"Keep me posted," I changed the subject, asking something I'd been wanting to. "What did you find at the Manor yesterday?"

He hesitated, opened his mouth but police sirens in the distance drowned out anything he might have said. Without thinking, we pulled out our grapplers and got out of there through the new skylight I put in-slash- crashed in to make. On the slanted roof of the Merchant's bank, we saw police officers flood into the lobby and start assessing the bad guys. All in a night's work.

Dick was the first to start towards the edge of the roof. I stayed put, watched how he said over his shoulder that he'd tell me later in a way that made me think he wasn't going to tell me at all.

......................

**LATER**

Abigail's eyes felt like they might roll out of her head and onto her laptop after her night's work that consisted more of fixing a printer issue than editing her thesis for her liking. She glared at the beat-up printer in the corner as if it had committed treason, and pointed at it, threatening, "If you hadn't been so damn expensive to begin with, I wouldn't have tried...just you remember that."

She blew a stray strand of blonde hair out of her face and rubbed the heels of her hands in her eyes to scare the sleepies away. She kept one hand over them and picked up her coffee mug with the other, bringing it to her lips but tasting nothing. She peered into the cup then. "No coffee left."

Tying the waist string of her plush robe, Abigail got up and went to refill her mug again with the pot on the counter that was in the mildly warm to lukewarm temperature range. She glanced through her curtains as the burnt-orange sun poked out from around Wayne Tower. When the distorted morning rays fell on her face, she smiled. Even if her night had been full of problems, she took comfort in mornings. To her, they were a chance to get it right.

She changed her mind about the coffee just before she poured another cup. Instead she set her mug in the sink, shut off the light above the table and headed for her bedroom where sleep was calling to her like a long lost lover. Her bones felt like it'd been ages since she had gotten any peaceful semblance of sleep. Lately...all she had were nightmares.

Perhaps she could have reasoned the experience to being stuck in another one, when she closed the bedroom door behind her and saw the tall silhouette of a skinny-necked man standing outside her window against the morning sun. She shrunk back against her door in terror, her eyes wide and unblinking. Abigail was thankful she locked the windows. The man swayed in the frame and she saw the rope tied around his neck.

She scrambled for her pillow on her lefthand side, diving her hands under it for the phone. She held in the bottom button as he'd said to, unsure if this was at all a good idea. She kept her eyes on the dead man's neck as the dial tone sounded twice. The voice on the other end was thick and throaty, as if she'd called him while he was asleep - what she desperately wanted to be. " _Abigail?_ "

"Jason, there's a m-man outside my bedroom window." She stammered.

There was a rustling of clothes, what sounded like a gun being cocked. His voice came much clearer this time. " _Wait- is there a fire escape outside your bedroom window?"_

Her 'no' was a squeak even to her own ears. She remembered the last time she was this scared, and it'd been years ago.

" _Listen to me carefully - you lock yourself in your bathroom or somewhere where there's only one exit with that gun you said you had. No windows, got it?"_ She hesitated to answer, but he demanded again more urgently, a note of worry in his voice.  _"Abigail, do you understand? You sit tight and don't open the door for anyone until I get there."_

She already had her gun on the way to the bathroom. She locked it as she said a single word:

"Hurry."


	19. Something Within Us Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A suicide victim has been left hanging as a threat to Abigail Byron, and Jason is uneasily getting the feeling that Otisburg isn't safe for her anymore. He has to act fast, but if he isn't careful, she'll learn the secret that will turn her against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “All in due time, see the world through different eyes.
> 
> I see the world through different eyes.
> 
> All in due time, shadows will give way, give way to light.
> 
> All that we suffer through leads to determination.
> 
> The trials we all go through gives us the strength to carry on.
> 
> Something within us burns, desire feeds the will to live.
> 
> A reason to believe I will see redemption. “
> 
> Killswitch Engage, “In Due Time”

 

I want to be clear here. I  _didn’t_ want to get entangled in this chick’s life. I didn’t. She brought this upon herself when she stopped me from bleeding out in that parking lot. Just had to be the hero. Sometimes, I think it’s just my luck. Anyone with the poor judgment to take this stray off the street ends up in the pound themselves, waiting to be put down.

 

I used to think Bruce deserved to die for what had been done to me and what I endured because he took me in. I knew I deserved to die for trying to kill him...But the difference is that Alfred, Dick, Tim, Barbara...Abigail. They didn’t deserve it. A lot of the nights I can’t sleep...I ended up reliving Halloween and watching my guilt grow with every moment. The things I did...the things I almost did. The thing I should have done when I had the chance. The people I shouldn't have been fighting. The people I should have been fighting to protect, and those I should have been fighting beside.

 

The papers and Gothamites of note say that I’m such a ruthless, merciless vigilante, that I am the better Batman Bruce just wasn't. I’m the Batman that would put criminals exactly where they belonged: in the ground. I didn’t disagree, and I’m sure the maggots I’m feeding new corpses to didn’t either.

 

But Abigail Byron? She believed I did this for the safety of the people. Not because it would save people, but because the crime warranted the punishment. You murder, you get murdered. You steal, you are left with nothing but the clothes on your back and sometimes, not even that. Crimes against women, children and animals are the ones that I pay special attention to. And she agreed with that. She believed in me after I became Red Hood, the better Batman who is willing to kill. I knew that didn’t make her a super-great person. But she said she had her reasons.

 

I told her once she didn't know everything about me. Part of me always had in the back of my mind that when she did...when she found out that I had been the Arkham Knight, the man who dragged Gotham  _into_ Hell itself for a brief time, punished an entire city for the wrongs of one man...She would wish she had let me bleed out.

………………………………………………………………………………………………...

 

“If this is bothering you that badly,” I said flatly, cutting the rope with a favorite blade I stole in Venezuela, “You could always pop a window. Get some fresh air.”

 

I could almost hear her eyes rolling in her voice. “You know, I called you because there was a dead man hanging outside my window. Not so you could then put said dead man onto my coffee table.”

 

I scoffed, managing to slice through the thick noose and working on loosening the canvas bag from the victim's head. Rigor mortis was starting to set into the neck, making it about impossible to get this damn thing off. There was a large green-tinted stain where the mouth should be, which tipped me off. At this point, I knew that the victim was male, possibly mid-thirties guessing on physique. He wasn't beefy or anything, but the way his calves were defined below his khaki shorts suggested he ran. A lot. He wore a green Polo shirt over that, with a wallet in his pocket but no phone. His driver's license confirmed my age estimate at thirty-three, his name was Lance Grady, and had already showed me what his face looked like.

 

“Okay, I'll bite, my interest outweighs my disgust," Abigail took a seat on the couch beside where I knelt and shimmied the bag up the victim's neck. "What are you looking for, since we already have ID'd the victim?"

 

The bag came free, and she sunk back into the seat of the couch with a hand over her mouth when she saw the victim's face. I clenched the fabric in my fingers, trying to keep my reaction muted with small success.

 

"Something we never wanted to find."

 

Lance Grady's blonde beard was speckled all through with blood and white face-paint, his features grotesquely stretched tight into a too-big grin. His eyes were wide open, staring into nothing. The wet stain came from a greenish ooze that dribbled down from one corner of his painted red mouth. I dabbed the bag in my hand to a bit of the ooze and sniffed it, wrinkling my nose at the disgustingly sweet odor.

 

"Why would you smell that?" Abigail questioned quietly, curling up into a ball on the couch.

 

"It's been changed," I murmured, my brow furrowing. I folded the rest of the bag around the stain to have Oracle throw under a microscope later; I stuffed it into my outer jacket pocket, zipping the pocket closed.

 

I stood and squared my shoulders beneath my jacket. I looked at Abigail on the couch who still staring at the victim, and I imagined how she'd look under my tactical hood. How her slender bones would look easily breakable and her jittery heartbeat would see right through her collected calm. I shook my head. Okay, Todd. Just say it. It’s easy. She’s not safe in this place. She’s in Falcone’s crosshairs, she’s in danger, why are you hesitating? Do it. Say it. Now.

 

"Okay, I know it sounds like a bad idea, but you're coming with me."

 

“Are you kidding me?” She blinked at me, pulled her robe back over her shoulder where it’d fallen down. She said slowly, her eyebrows raised, "You just put a dead guy that looks like Joker on my coffee table. Like hell I'm staying here."

 

“Then get into some clothes you can run in,” I moved to the window, peeking through her curtains to the rooftops everywhere I could see. She rushed to her room, taking off her robe as she went. “Along with anything you can’t live without. Make sure it’s not heavy.” There was a man staring out a window in shadow from the waist up, standing in a building’s stairwell maybe forty feet away. He had a duffel with him, and didn’t look like he was in a hurry. Shit. I shrugged out of my jacket, walking towards the door to wait for her. “Leave some room in your bag, and grab me the biggest hoodie you’ve got.”

 

She called back skeptically from behind her closed bedroom door. “We’re going incognito?”

 

“I am,” I loosened my gun holster over my shirt, then unclipped it off me.

 

Abigail came out in a pair of denim shorts, a black shirt that had ‘philosophy department’ across the front, along with a pair of Chucks, a backpack hanging from one hand and a dark blue hoodie with the other. I handed her my jacket and gun holster in return. “Put these in your bag.”

 

She dropped it onto the floor, carefully fitting my stuff in there. She had a shirt or something separating her stuff from mine, as if she didn’t want me to see what she’d packed. Not that I cared what she brought. Her business, not mine. I cared about how fast she was able to run with that on her back. She zipped it up again, and slung it over her arms. She gave me a weird look. “Is it really that wise to give  _me_ your guns?”

 

“You can shoot, can’t you?”

 

“Pfft, yeah, I can shoot, it’s just that you’re likely a better shot,” She seemed unsure, holding her backpack straps. “You should be armed with something, at least.”

 

“I’m always armed,” I moved the knife sheath from my ankle to around my forearm. Good thing the hoodie she gave me had baggy, long sleeves. “Got your keys?”

 

I slid on a pair of sunglasses from where I’d dangled them on the collar of my shirt. My nose had been crooked for a long time, since Bruce knocked it sideways back in the days of sparring for hours on end. So my shades were always cocked a bit to the left where the bridge hadn’t healed. She jingled them from their loop around her pinkie finger, handing me the hoodie. It was a bit too small, but the hood itself was large enough to cover the eyesore on my left cheek.

 

She cracked her front door, checked both ways of the hall. When she shot me a nod for the all clear, we stepped out and turned left towards the elevator.  She nervously hit the button, punching it several times as if that’d make it faster. I looked at her, amused but on edge. She exhaled a ‘finally’ when it dinged, then swooshed open. We got in and I was about to push the ground level button when a male voice rang out from the hall.

 

“Gail, save me the lift!”

 

A guy a bit shorter than me with slightly windburned tan skin and dark hair came running and waving his hands, an overly friendly grin plastered over his face. Abigail shrugged and smiled apologetically, and I wasn’t laughing at her now as I slammed my palm against the ‘close’ button as he came up. The doors nearly chopped him in half before they fell back again. Pity.

 

“Thanks,” He said to me with a strange Spanish lilt, and stood on her other side, peering at her from the corner of his eye.

 

He honestly should have been keeping an eye on me; I was sizing him up because my fingers got itchy at the way his face in profile was kinda familiar. The hazel eyes, the mocha-colored skin, the slight hook on his nose - everything was telling me that I’d seen this guy before. He could be going to a meeting from the look of his clothes; he wore a navy blazer over a white button-down and matching navy slacks, shiny shoes too. His face said experience, but he didn't seem much older than her. Or me.

 

“So, uh…” The guy said, and my newfound hatred for elevators was starting to sink in. His voice I couldn’t place but it was slowly coming to me. “Did you think about what I said the other night?”

 

She leaned towards me slightly, still following my lead but maintaining her calm despite the trouble she's in. She gave him a smiling sideways glance. "About getting coffee or...?"

 

"Yeah, coffee," He eyed me warily, but kept his easygoing expression. He was trying to get a read on what I was to her, or who I was in general. "You know, they say it's good tact to check up on an application to show your interest."

 

She laughed, more to let go of tension. "Decent analogy, but no, Dominic, I'm sorry." She looked at her sneakers. "I've got a lot going on and I'm not sure if I'll have time to see anyone if my deadline is in next month.”

 

"That's a shame," Dominic did seem genuinely disappointed, but my invisibility wasn't working anymore. He was staring at me in between glances at her, and every time he did, he kept shifting his right arm, as if there was something poking at him under his jacket. My blood ran cold and I froze mid-breath as he asked her, “Does it have anything to do with this young man?”

 

It took me a second to realize he was talking about me. I could place him now, and he was the last person I ever wanted to be in an elevator with. And the last person I would ever want Abigail to be within four feet from. And his name sure as hell isn’t Dominic.

 

I could feel Abigail’s eyes on my hood as she answered him uneasily, “Possibly.”

 

In my peripheral vision, I saw him hold out a hand for me to shake and a smooth smile. Careful to keep my hood over my cheek, I looked at it like a dead rat was nestled in his palm. My knife was strapped on the forearm of the hand he wanted me to put in his. I eyed him. I knew exactly who this was, and I knew exactly what skill set he had. Charisma to get close, the sob story to get closer, and then the keen intuition needed to know when to strike. Something glinted beneath his coat, now as open with his outstretched hand between us. A gun.

 

“No sense of fairplay?” He frowned, a crack in his wall. His problem was that he’s never been good at planning for  _me._

 

I grabbed his forearm in a vice grip, and he would grabbed mine and feel the blade under my hoodie. I pulled him closer, and used my free hand to take down my hood, removed my glasses. I handed them to Abigail and watched his face sour into anger like a grape drying to a raisin. “Not with you, Alejandro.”

 

I shielded Abigail by hipchecking her backwards so that she fell to the ground and became as small as possible. I heard her yelp before I shoved him away hard. I didn’t let go of his hand, dodging a punch thrown with his free hand. He reached for his gun then, swearing in Spanish; I pinned him to the wall of the elevator with our forearms between us, using the back of my hand to push his gun into his ribs. He grunted in pain, before he jabbed me in the side - a kidney shot. My whole right side crumpled that way, pain dizzying me as I groaned. He wasn’t left handed, which probably saved me from the TKO I knew he could pull off with his right hand.

 

I heard an unzipping from behind me, so I thought I’d do the gentlemanly thing and buy the lady some time. Diving my free hand under my sleeve for the hilt of my knife, I drew it back a bit and then stabbed out through the fabric to nail his hand from where it gripped my forearm. I drove the blade into the elevator wall, his yell silenced abruptly as I headbutted him in the nose and a sharp crack echoed. I came away from him, recovering from that kidney shot as he struggled and blood started to run down the stainless steel wall.

 

“What kind of funky gun is this?” I heard Abigail say behind me in exasperation, and I glanced back to see her shaking hands fiddling with the mechanisms on my gun.

 

But as she spoke, Alejandro was gritting his teeth and using his free hand to pull the other straight down. I grimaced, the sound it made as the knife - which could damn - near cut through solid ice - started to slice through his knuckles. I cringed, diving a hand beneath Al’s coat and drawing his own gun on him. That made him stop fighting and stare at me with squinting brown eyes.

 

“Are you going to kill me,  _caballero_?” He asked me, his accent thicker and he hissed out his words like he was one of the Venezuelan rattlesnakes I used to check my bed for months ago before I called it a night. “After all my comrades and I sacrificed for your vengeance?”

 

I felt her eyes burning holes into the back of my head. I pressed the muzzle of the gun between his eyebrows. Was he honestly throwing that in my face? After I told those boys that if they were fighting because  _I led them,_ they should go home while the going is good. Alejandro hated Deathstroke, plain and simple. I didn’t know the whole story there, but what I did know was enough for me. But...why did he stay in Gotham? Did Falcone make him an offer, or Joker? Or someone worse?

 

“Maybe you should’ve left with them."

 

I squeezed the trigger, but a click sounded instead of something louder. I tried it again. Click. Again. Click. He was bluffing.

 

"Jason..." Abigail's voice behind me, equal parts fearful for herself and fearful for me.

 

Alejandro was laughing tightly, and yanked his hand free of the knife, holding it to his chest in a mangled mess of fingers and blood. He grabbed my knife with his free hand and wrenched it from the wall, turning its point upon me. “Going to cut out your heart...just to see if you have one.”

 

I had a useless gun, and a girl that placed her safety in the hands of a guy that's never been good at holding onto anything - hi, that's me. And there's an angry former employee of mine holding my knife.

 

He lunged at me, and I leaned back to avoid it, dropping the gun, but the enclosed space didn't allow much - the tip of the knife (which I sharpened often) cut the front of my shirt. He slashed back, and I barely registered the swiftness of his strikes enough to evade them. His dagger skills weren't rusty, but he often balanced his knife with punches from the other arm. He's fighting with one arm, and that was my advantage. I just needed to disable the other arm. He stabbed at me, and I placed a slightly off-balance shot to the junction of his collarbone and shoulder weakened the knife - wielding arm, and on the drawback of my left hand, I grabbed his wrist. I twisted my body along the outside of this arm, pulling his wrist over my shoulder. I closed my other hand around his forearm and jerked straight down sharply, a grinding crack from his elbow bouncing off the walls. I tugged harder, the thick cords of muscle in my arms sticking out as I contorted his arm into a right angle in the worst kind of way. I opened my eyes and saw blood stained splintered bone poking through the material of his clothes. He cried and screamed. And I promise that I didn't want to stop.

 

"Jason, stop!" I felt small feminine hands on my face and my hands, trying their hardest to separate them from his arm. "Snap out of it, please Jason, stop it!"

 

It felt like being drawn to the surface of water from the depths. Almost confused, I let go, the elevator opening into a parking garage I barely remembered, and he stumbled out. I followed him, taking a fistful of his blazer and used it as leverage when I kneed him in the stomach. He fell to his knees, wheezing and bleeding.

 

I looked at Abigail beside me, to her eyes searching mine for something she knows she won't find. Her mouth was half-open with a question I almost hope she won't ask. I said, my voice strained, "Get in your car and wait for me at the exit."

 

She hesitated, before running further into the garage. I went back to the elevator to pick up my knife, wiping the sides on the seam of my jeans and returning it to its sheath on my forearm. I turned to Alejandro, snatching a handful of his hair and lifting his scalp straight up, forcing him to stand with a whine. He was overwhelmed by pain, wretching with each movement. There was an invisible hand clamped on my chest as I half-dragged, half-led him to the street. I let him fall again against the concrete walls of the building, his ruined arms hanging over his lap. Here, people would walk past him once the city woke up and any who drove by would see my work. I rose my eyes, glaring around at the surrounding rooftops. It was a warning.

 

Follow, and this is what happens to you.

 

I jogged to the exit of the parking garage, where a silver Subaru Outback was waiting for me. I checked the back seat and the space behind it on my way up to the passenger's side. I got in, and was hit with a mix of the old book smell I associated with her, and the tree-shaped strawberry-scented air freshener that hung from her rear view mirror. There was a gold-rimmed pair of John Lennon circular sunnies on a cubby on her dash, along with a Gotham U parking pass.

 

The second my door shut, she stepped on it and drove out. I was thrown back into my seat, casting stares at her. She's angry. She bit her lower lip near the corner, and she was scooted as far away from me on her seat as possible. She ignored me, diving down alleys and cutting people off.

 

"Whoah, want to cool it? I made sure we weren't tailed when we left," I told her, trying to be reassuring. "Hang a left onto 15th."

 

She went right instead. Different plans? As if to confirm this, she produced a CD from the middle console and shove it into the player, mashing the volume almost the whole way up. She rolled down her window and slid the Lennon sunglasses onto her face as the peek-a-boo sun hit her face from around the buildings.

 

I looked away and kept an eye on the rear view mirrors, watching the rooftops. I rested my elbow on the window after I rolled mine down too, my fingers playing with the stem of my thicker sunglasses. The CD came on halfway through a Soundgarden song, probably from where she'd left off. Then I noticed her turning into a drive-thru. She brought the music volume down to a safer level, ignoring me completely and ordering a couple of breakfast burritos, and a single drink.

 

“I don’t have a ton of cash on me, we’ll share the Coke,” She told me, though I really didn’t care. My stomach was growling, and she was buying me breakfast. I smiled a bit. The girl was working on a diamond necklace, feeding me.

 

When we got the food, she parked in the restaurant lot and as soon as she handed me my burrito, she asked hotly, “So who the hell is Alejandro, why did he pretend to be a business student and why was he three doors down from my apartment?”

 

I narrowed my eyes. Diamond necklace revoked. I avoided the subject like the sly dog I am. Pfft. I said through a mouthful of egg, peppers, sausage and cheese,“Three Doors Down, I love them. You gonna pre-order  _Us and the Night?_ ”

 

“Jason…” She pushed up her sunglasses to the top of her head, pulling back the wrapper and taking her first bite of burrito. “This car is not going anywhere unless you tell me about Alejandro.”

 

I considered telling her the truth. All of it. That I was the Arkham Knight and Alejandro was one of my best lieutenants in the militia. I considered it for a split second. And that split second would've cost me whatever kind of friendship this was. Abigail trusted me not to screw her over. Somehow. If I didn't tell her, surely the tank in the garage would. Wouldn't want the Missus getting the wrong idea.

 

I did what I had to. I lied. "He was a kind of partner to me. But when our partnership ended, he was supposed to leave and stay out of Gotham." I shook my head and reached over to pick up the Coke, pausing before taking a drink. "It was stupid. I knew he wouldn't say no to a bribe, but I thought he'd learned something fighting with me. He'd been threatened or accepted an offer that could set him up for life. A cozy retirement fund, a trip to Venice..."

 

"You told me Falcone knew about us..." She covered her burrito up and put it in the brown bag. I frowned as she asked quietly, "So you're saying he was spying on me to see why you were visiting?" I nodded. Abigail caught a funny expression then. "I knew the WiFi connection cutting out every few seconds for me but nobody else was shady. I kept asking him to fix it for me since he updated the system for the Ripleys when he moved in."

 

I snorted. Al was garbage at talking to the ladies. Then again, that's the pot calling the kettle black.

 

"Jason, where are we going?" Abigail started the Outback up, her sunglasses back over her eyes.

 

I knew I didn't want her to see the tank, so I'd have to bring her in through the upper floor and make up some thing about how the bottom floor was trashed when the neighborhood was the Arkham City superprison. "Solomon Wayne courthouse."

 

As we left the parking lot and drove through Otisburg to make the trek to Old Gotham, part of me was uneasy sitting in the passenger's seat.

 

What if I failed this? What if I made a bad call and she got hurt? Or if I was focusing on her and Dick got hurt? Or Tim? Babs? There were too many lives on the line...I was beginning to understand what it felt like to be Bruce. He was focused on his mission...and it cost him my life. I read Alfred's letters, I knew it seemed like that to the old man.

 

But would I be able to continue if I screwed up that bad? I felt some of that after Halloween...But this was different. I'd been crazy with rage and pain then...What if I lost it that bad now? And it was Abigail who paid my price?

 

I eyed her as this ran through my head. She had one hand on the wheel, her thumb tapping to the rhythm of the seventies music on the radio. She was singing along silently, and her mouth was quirked upwards into a smile as she did. Abigail's blonde hair was falling out of her sloppy bun and fluttered as the morning breeze came through the car. Through her dark shades, I could see her eyes softening as the wind swept her straight bangs sideways. She seemed entirely entrenched in being so alive, so committed to living.

 

I shook my head and made myself stare at the blood on my clothes, my rough hands, my side aching from the kidney shot Al hit me with...No, I couldn't live with myself if she died because of me.

 

_"Going to cut out your heart...just to see if you have one."_


	20. Like a Lonesome Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has successfully gotten Abigail back to his firehouse, and while they agree to take a break for the day on their quest to bring Falcone to justice, they learn about each other in ways neither ever expected to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume
> 
> The other woman keeps fresh cut flowers in each room
> 
> There are never toys that's scattered everywhere
> 
> And when her old man comes to call
> 
> He finds her waiting like a lonesome queen
> 
> 'Cause to be by her side it's such a change from old routine”
> 
> Lana Del Rey, “The Other Woman”

 

My boots hit the hardwood of my office floor, my awkward arms braced around her so I wouldn’t crush her with the landing force and her skin felt cold to the touch where her cheek pressed against my neck. She squirmed in my arms once she saw we hadn't died in ziplining here from the building across from the fire station. "Oh my gosh, put me down, put me down."

 

I did as the lady asked, and once both feet were on the ground, she rested her hands on her knees and hyperventilated. I shut my curtains and shrugged out of her hoodie, raising an eyebrow at her. "Put your hands on your head and take deeper breaths." I smirked. "It was only thirty feet and I've got a good grip, I'm not sure why you're huffing."

 

"Only thirty feet?" She wheezed bitterly, before interlacing her fingers on top of her head and forcing herself to breathe through her nose.

 

"It gets easier. Soon you'll be dropping off skyscrapers without flinching," That earned me a dark blue glare and I lifted my hands in surrender with a grin, "I'm teasing. So, afraid of heights or what?"

 

She put her backpack on the floor and unzipped the side compartment, taking out a yellow asthma inhaler. I deflated, guilt settling in like an old friend sitting on a couch beside me. Now I felt like a jackass.

 

She shook it vigorously and had a puff. I watched her chest slow in its heaving for a few moments. Abigail turned to me then, offering me an easy smile when she saw the apology on my face. Her steady voice sounded just like when I'd first heard it, like she had no worries she couldn't handle. "Hey, it's okay. Happens to the best of us."

 

Her eyes moved to the room and her lips pursed. Abigail was surveying my living space; my ash tray was a few smokes from overflowing, my desk was nearly covered in post-its, there was a section of the opposite wall riddled with knicks from where I boredly practiced with throwing knives, and suddenly, my face got hot. It wasn’t that the place was messy, it’s just that some of the stuff in here could be enough to place me within the category of serial killer instead of hard-hitting vigilante.

 

I rubbed at my neck, "Yeah, if I knew you were coming, I would've cleaned something."

 

"You should’ve seen my apartment around midterms. It was like wading through a forest of stacks of books," She joked, dropping off her bag by my desk and hugging her sides as she scanned around further. "This...It's very...well, you."

 

“It isn’t much," I conceded, suddenly self-conscious. I did kinda live like a stray dog. "But it's home."

 

Or as close to 'home' as I'll be getting.

 

"It's nice...having a home," She squinted at a notepad on the desk, seeming eager to change the subject. "What's forty eight?"

 

"Eh, the number of hours it's been since I had a smoke," I admitted, going over to her and snagging a pencil from the cup over her shoulder. I crossed out forty-eight and scribbled fifty-four down. "I'm trying to quit." My eyelids were anvils and I yawned away from her. I bent over and untied my boots, leaning against the holed wall while I tugged them off. "Well, do you want a tour? Downstairs is trashed, though. I'd suggest you stay up here. Arkham City inmates used to have fights there and it's not that safe. But I've got a kitchen up here that's not too badly stocked, a bathroom with a tub if you wanted to clean up, and I can set you up a workspace so you can work on your thesis...if that'll make this easier."

 

"Easier?" Her eyes matched her question and her brows came together.

 

I hesitated and answered, looking at the scuffed wooden floor. "I know I'm not stellar company and this isn't a five-star hotel. But until I am absolutely sure that you will be safe, I..." I trailed off, not sure how to say it. Lucky for me, Abigail had a clue.

 

"...want to keep an eye on me?" She guessed, and after I confirmed it with a slight nod, she moved to the closed window. Her thin fingers were playing about the curtains, the other hand stuffed in the shallow pockets of her shorts. Her back was to me and I wish I could've seen her face when she said, "Am I under house arrest, Red Hood?"

 

"No," I said firmly, "You’re a grown woman. You can leave at any time. You can leave right in the middle of my next sentence and you won't hurt my feelings."

 

"That's cute," She spun around, back against the wall and a wry expression on her face. "Quoting me.” I shrugged, crossing my arms. She reassured me, “I trust you...And not because I’m kinda forced to, either.”

 

“Kind of you.”

 

"To be honest with you, Jason," She stretched her arms over her head, and I saw the slight muscles in her neck contract with the movement. She kicked off her shoes next to my boots, the comparison of size almost comical. "I feel like I haven't slept in ages. I'll skip the tour, if you don't mind, in favor of a nap."

 

"Now, you're speaking my language. Me too." I realized what I'd just said and scrambled. I was beginning to get the hint that I royally sucked at this. "Not that I meant you'd be sleeping with me - not  _that_ kind of nap. Sleeping. Actual sleeping. I've been on the job the last few days and it's been hard to get shut-eye, and-"

 

To my surprise, she laughed. "Relax. I didn't think all work and no play made you a dull boy. I've been under the impression that you live for your job."

 

“Guns, kickass leather outfits and fighting bad guys, what more could you want?”

 

I led her out of the office into the hall. She was right, I did live for my job. But I've never known a life outside of fighting crime and confronting my demons. I had too many to ever stop fighting, and it was part of why I became Batman's sidekick, why I returned to the family. So I could continue to battle my demons and do some good while I'm at it.

 

We hung a left into the dorms, where my hammock was. There were beds, but no mattresses and the stiff metal bars were far from comfy no matter how many blankets you threw over them. Trust me. There was a few shelves of fleece blankets and lived-in, sunken pillows to the right of the door. On the wall above each bed was a window with white curtains, and eleven o’clock sunlight bleached the yellow plaster white in places. The brightness of the room made Abigail’s straw-colored hair blonder, and her skin paler. And when she would look at me, her stormy blue-gray eyes seemed to stare right through me.

 

"I'm guessing you don't have too many visitors," She said, pushing her hand on a bed's bars and seeing that they didn't give in to much.

 

I leaned against the doorframe with my arms crossed. "You're the first girl I've brought back here."

 

"Does that make me special?" Abigail's eyes lightened as the sun hit them.

 

"Not really," I said, walking over slowly, "But considering you'll be in the hammock and nobody besides me sleeps in there,  _that_ makes you special."

 

Abigail let out an amused sound, then checked out the hammock. She glanced at me sheepishly. "I've actually never been in one of these. Maybe you should take the hammock and I'll make do on the floor."

 

“What makes you think I’m gonna be rude and force you onto the floor?” I puffed out my chest, “I may be an outlaw, but I’ve got manners.”

 

“Then we’re both on the floor,” She deduced, her blonde eyebrows lifted.

 

I could see that arguing with her would be about as successful as arguing with the old man. Neither was willing to budge an inch. I told her to shut the windows while I rolled my eyes, and walked back towards the entrance to grab four blankets and two pillows from the shelves. I spread out two of the blankets on the floor about a foot apart, to separate us from the hard wood and each other, and tossed the rest of the blankets in the space between us. I threw both pillows down on her patch and stretched out on mine, my feet over the bottom hem. I wiggled out of my shirt, my white tank underneath feeling much better with the breeze and the dry heat of Gotham in May.

 

When she finished closing the windows, she came over and slid between the covers. The way her body was swallowed up by them had me realizing just how small Abigail was. She sat up for a second and let her hair fall from her bun. Her hair was longer than I thought, brushing just above her elbows in golden waves. She flipped onto her stomach, and dug her hands under her pillow. She pointed her face away from me, and all I could see of her face was her cheekbone under her hair.

 

A part of me was glad she didn’t see me...my scars were on full display in this tank top.

 

"Thank you for this," She whispered, "I don't know where else I could've gone."

 

I listened to her breathing for the longest time. We were close enough for me to hear it. I stayed awake, watching the waves of blonde hair on her back rise and fall.

 

"Sure," Was all I said eventually, but there were loads of things I could've told her instead.

 

Things like I was sorry that she had to be dragged into my problems by helping me. That I appreciated her helping me, but the next time a bleeding guy with a bat on his chest crosses your path, leave the idiot be. That she was a decent person in an indecent city and she reminded me that decent people still existed in Gotham. She believed in me...of all people.

 

In a city where anyone with mental illness fears being branded a future super-criminal (we can thank Joker for that one)...where having serious mental issues was like being a monster. I still had no clue why she wasn't on the city records, why she hated Falcone so much, and why she condoned my methods....but I'm a firm believer in minding one's business. I wanted to tell her that she would always have a friend while I breathed. Because she'd been a friend to me. Possibly the only friend I had outside the family.

 

I wanted to tell Abigail that I was afraid of her. Scared utterly shitless. Not because she could read me and knew my identity and all that...I was afraid of being her friend. Her anything. All my life I've been conditioned to think that eventually I'll lose everybody or disappoint them. So I threw everything I had into my work...because I  _wanted_  to be better than I was.

 

And I wanted to tell her everything. I knew this was because I've never actually told anyone what happened the years I was gone...how I died. How I came back. Barbara and Dick just accepted that I was here now and the past didn't matter. I was fairly sure that was because they didn't want to think about it...

 

But Abigail hadn't a clue. I wanted her to understand. Understand why I became Arkham Knight. It didn't justify what I did to Gotham...but I felt that if I told her, she'd run. And I'd have screwed it up indefinitely.

 

I drifted off into a light sleep to those thoughts, and sunk into oblivion.

 

..........

 

**LATER THAT DAY - 10 P.M.**

 

The sounds of sharp breaths and low whines yanked me out of sleep. I groggily looked over to see her arms and legs stirring, and one of her hands dipped out to clench a section of her pillow into a fist. I propped myself up on my elbow, and reached out to prod her shoulder, my throat thick and my voice somewhat hoarse, "Hey, Gail...Gail, wake up."

 

But when I touched her, she gasped and jolted like my fingers had electrocuted her. Her breaths sounded like sobs as she woke up and whispered the word 'Mom'..My heart choked in my throat, I gently tugged her blankets over to me and coaxed her closer. I wiped her hair out of her shining face. It was dark but as the moonlight snaked through the curtains, I saw a look on her face I'd seen in the mirror often enough to recognize this late at night. Her eyes shut so tight they crinkled in the inner corners, a crease between her eyebrows, the freckles on her nose bunched together as she breathed, her cheeks wet with hot tears, and her mouth a hard line. She, whether subconsciously or intentionally, pressed her face to my chest.

 

My first thought was to push her away because her hands were on the thicker scars on my shoulders where the clown had wrapped barbed wire and I'd struggled so bad that it just cut deeper and deeper. Her fingers searched my shoulders and found other scars. I wanted to push her away. My hands were on her shoulders to do it. The air in my lungs hitched in my throat in barely restrained horror when she actually settled there, her hands against my collarbones and her warm cheek against my neck.

 

I don’t remember deciding to do it, but my palms flattened against her skin and slid down her back until she was enveloped in my arms. I tilted my chin to smell the day's sun lingering in her hair and her sweet shampoo. I closed my eyes again, running with it and giving into my sleep deprivation again. I felt her fingers spreading and then her stuttering voice, "J-Jason?"

 

"Mornin', sunshine," I said smoothly, opening my sleepy eyes and peering at her. "You know, if you wanna cuddle, s'polite to ask first."

 

"I - I'm sorry," She whispered quickly, withdrawing from me and my arms stayed halfway between us.

 

She hesitated for a second. "Wait, did I-"

 

"You had a nightmare," I explained slowly, and trapped a tear rolling down her cheek with my fingertip. I showed the proof to her and her eyes widened with something like embarrassment. "You called for your mom..."

 

Abigail covered her face with a hand, and put her back to me. Shakily, she said, "Goodnight."

 

I frowned and patted her arm with my knuckles. "Gail, look at me."  
 

A muffled 'no' answered me. I considered going back to sleep, forgetting this little incident. But I knew she was calling for her mother in her nightmares. And I knew  _all_ about that. She wasn’t falling asleep over there...and if I let her fall asleep, I was a shitty host.

 

I stood up from my bed and walked out of the dorms. I went to the kitchen, opening up the fridge and pulling out what I needed. I checked the stove clock to make sure I wasn’t going to be late for my ‘shift’. I had a couple of hours. I grabbed a couple of bowls and spoons from the utensil drawer. I pried the tub off the Cool Whip and spooned out a few large globs into both bowls, wiping the bits stuck to the spoon with my finger. I popped a blueberry into my mouth once I tore into those, measuring a piled handful into both bowls. I mixed them through the Cool Whip, left a spoon in each bowl and carried them back to the dorms.

 

When I got back into the room, she was sitting up with her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her face was drenched in moonlight pouring in from between the curtains, and her hair was a tangled waterfall down her back.

 

“Brought you food,” I said in a low voice, sitting by her Indian-style and offering her a bowl. Abigail took it, muttering a ‘thank you’. I held my bowl in one hand and used the other to drape her blankets around her shoulders.

 

That earned me a smile out of her, and she snuggled into the folds more. “You’re being awfully sweet.”

 

“What? A dangerous sociopath with a take-no-prisoners view of justice can’t be a decent guy?”

 

“Didn’t say that,” She pointed out, going into that steady calm voice of hers, “You’re not a sociopath, by the way. Sociopathic  _tendencies_ , sure. But you’re not a full-blown sociopath.”

 

“And how the hell would you know?” I knew she was working on a master’s degree, but that was in philosophy, not clinical psychology.

 

“I’m related to a sociopath,” She said detachedly, “And unlike him, you show a great deal more empathy. Months ago, before I met you, I spoke with someone who lived in the same apartment building as a kid you ran across town to talk down from committing suicide.”

 

I remembered that kid... His name was James, barely fourteen, and he ran away from home because his parents neglected him...they told him to let the bruises on his arms from bullies at school go, forget about it. But James told me, a stranger, that the other kids were bullying him because he wouldn’t try the drugs Black Mask was circulating in the Narrows. To sell to kids...Well. I promptly took care of that and kicked the problem out a window.

 

“I wasn’t going to let a kid die, no matter what it was." It was a declaration, and I’d tattoo it all over me if I had the time. “I’ve got sociopathic tendencies...but you’re probably right. I care about people...if they deserve it.”

 

She stared at me and held this gaze. There was a crease her cheek outside the corner of her mouth that made her appear like she was always smirking, but her eyes held something much stronger than a sad smile could conceal. I felt exposed….like a nerve. Like I was looking at the mirror again in Venezuela and mentalling logging where each of my scars was. I’m a twenty-something guy, and she’s a twenty-something girl. And something deep in my gut told me that neither of us had ever met anything quite like the other.

 

I would’ve killed to have a friend like this when I was a kid stealing food for two.

 

Which reminded me. “What was she like? Your mom.”

 

“She was a cop,” She broke the gaze then, glancing at her feet. Her shoulders slumped uncomfortably. “On the force since before I was born. She knew Harvey Bullock, Gordon, Montoya, Essen. But Bullock and Gordon visited quite a bit. Bullock was slimmer then…” She chuckled, and I fought back a laugh. “My dad wasn’t home most of the time, so my mom juggled raising me with the badge. And when I was ten, she came home from work one day and I knew something awful had happened…She had this look, like she’d just run a marathon with all she had and still finished dead last, y’know?”

 

I nodded. Bruce had had a look like that more than once before I knew his secret.

 

“I learned later that her partner had just been killed...I wondered for years why Louis didn’t come by anymore with those ice cream cups,” She made a circle with her pointer fingers and thumbs, “He’d sneak them by my mom and give them to me...After he was killed, she had me swear to her that I’d never follow in her footsteps. She forbid me to become a cop...that was the only time she made me do anything I didn’t want to do.” She smiled. “She was the one who taught me to read and read well. I homeschooled myself, and when she got home, she would check my progress and every good report was put on the fridge. I was ahead of a lot of kids my age, she always told me.”

 

I imagined an even smaller Abigail running to her mom in a flash of blonde hair to show her a paper. All smiles and giggles.

 

“I spent a lot of time alone, though. But I’ve always been better alone.” Abigail said, “No distractions, no heartbreak when friends move away or replace you with better people, no disappointment. All I needed was my mom and my books.” Her eyes darkened, and she spoke like a child, fragile syllables and barely moved her lips. “When I lost her at eleven, I understood why promising her I’d never be a cop meant so much to her. She was killed…” She closed her eyes. No tears, but she bit her lip.

 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say any more,” I said quickly, wanting to put my arm around her or something but my limbs were lead. Helpless. I tried something, and I wasn’t sure why I resorted to it. “I know where you’re coming from...My mom was all I had as a little kid, too...My dad was in prison. To cope, I guess...she got into drugs. Narcotics. I stole car parts to get food money. But it wasn’t all bad. I learned to cook on our old stove to feed us, and we liked to try different foods out. Food was a comfort, so I did what I could. Yeah, I had to steal more to pay for the new stuff, but it was worth it...She died of an overdose shortly after I turned thirteen...And I was on the streets, struggling to survive.” She watched my face as I talked.

 

“That’s how I met Batman...Or Bruce, now. The whole world knows, might as well say it.” She nodded. “I was stealing the hubcaps off the BatMobile and he caught me. As first impressions go, I’d say that was golden…” Abigail laughed, covering her mouth like she did.

 

“Bruce took me in, gave me a place to hang my hat,” I shrugged, pretending it wasn’t that big of a deal...but it was so much more than I could have ever asked for at the time. “He was like the father I never had...Alfred too, the butler.”

 

“I’m going to go ahead and guess that you were the shithead Robin Gordon complained about when he’d take me home from school? The second one?”

 

Wait. “He complained about me?”

 

“Oh my gosh, when didn’t he complain?” She shook her head. She put on her best impression of Gordon’s voice that often sounded like he gargled gravel. “ _‘That new kid is working on my last raw nerve.’_ Apparently, you taped a sign on his back that said ‘World’s Okayest Cop’?”

 

“Yup,” I answered, my mouth popping on the ‘p’. “I did it because I was always trying to get Bruce to laugh on the job. And that was the closest I got. Gordon spins around and there’s the sign on his back…”

 

“Those were good days, I bet…” She brushed her shoulder against mine.

 

“The best…”

 

“Didn’t those shorts ever get cold? I’d see pictures of you and wonder how the hell you put up with that in the winter.”

 

“Sunshine, you’ve got no idea.”

 

We kept talking and eventually we were laying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling. We talked about everything, from the insulation of spandex to her degree.

 

Abigail told me she had fallen in love with the field because she just really wanted a calm, logical way to call people out on their shit and do something with it. Write books, do scholarship and get a professorship while she was at it. I can respect that.

 

“Philosophy is the one place I can count on to organize the illogical world into perfect lines.” She had raised her hands, like she was gathering a night sky out of my plaster ceiling. “I can come home from an incredibly difficult day dealing with old issues, but I open up Plato, for instance...and for a little while I can buy into his theory of immortality. That me and my mom might reunite someday when I die and read books forever…That our bodies are imperfect,” She touched my arm and when her fingers left, my skin raised up in goosebumps as if to follow her away. “Their lifetimes on this planet are fixed. And when this body dies, my soul will join a greater knowledge that people tap into when they read…”

 

All I could manage to say was an exhaled, “Damn.”

 

I discovered pretty damn quickly that we had a shared love of books. She hadn’t thought me the type to read. That’s fine. Nobody ever does. We talked about our favorite books and who our favorite literary heroes were. She loved Lady Blakeney from  _The Scarlet Pimpernell_ , which I’ve never read, but now felt a strange need to that reminded me of the punk bookworm I used to be. And when she guessed that  _Oliver Twist_ was my favorite book, I didn’t argue with her.

 

The conversation dwindled like a campfire going out, and we fell into a comfortable silence. She closed her eyes after a while, and I tilted my head to her. I watched a lock of hair sway in front of her mouth as she breathed, mentally measuring the evenness of each one.

 

When the clock struck midnight and I heard the distant tolling of Barb’s tower, I rose from the our makeshift beds and had a gander out the windows. Cloudy, less visibility…

 

I glanced to her again, how she’d fallen asleep with her hand in her hair and her legs crossed. I left her a note that I’d be back soon, and got into my patched up work clothes.

 

I had a lot of it to do tonight.


	21. Every Day is Do or Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason meets with Tim and Commissioner Gordon to bargain over just whose brand of justice Carmine Falcone will face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You can be an angel of mercy or give into hate.
> 
> You can try to buy it just like it every other careless mistake.
> 
> How do you justify I'm mystified by the ways of your heart.
> 
> With a million lies the truth will rise to tear you apart
> 
> No one gets out alive, every day is do or die.
> 
> The one thing you leave behind.
> 
> Is how did you love, how did you love?”
> 
> Shinedown, “How Did You Love?”

 

I punched in by stopping a mugging in its tracks just a few blocks away from the station in Crime Alley, before I made the trip to the clocktower, taking care of petty crime along the way. I dropped off the sample of the substance oozing out of the suicide victim’s mouth, told Barbara to cross-reference this to the analysis of Joker’s usual laughing gas.

She asked me why I looked so cheery as I handed her the sample with my hood lifted away from my face. I lowered the mask and asked her who the flowers on her desk were from. The flat look she shot me signalled that that was the end of the conversation.

She told me what became of the suicide victim I left on Abigail's coffee table. I notified her on my way to Abigail’s that morning that I’d have her out of the apartment within thirty minutes. Barb told me that Dick had a hell of a time getting the guy into a dumpster over in the Bowery, and had Tim take pictures. I had them sent to me and saved in my phone. Boy Wonder The First halfway into a dumpster in a pair of khaki shorts and man flops.

Barbara also gave me an update on Bane. He’s been darting between the Island of the Dolls and the mainland for days. Like he’s stockpiling supplies. I can understand the logic there. Supposedly haunted joint, might be good to set up shop since people are too scared to go there anyways...but to what end? I told her that the minute he broke his pattern, I better be the first person she called.

In the meantime, I was supposed to meet up with Tim on the roof of the GCPD, as per his request. And I knew it sounded fishy from the beginning.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"You want to explain to me what I'm seeing here, replacement?" I glared between the two, cool sweat sticking my shirt to my lower back.

Robin had his hood up, and all I could see of his face was from under his nose down to his chin. His jaw was set, and he leaned back against the railing. His hands were in front of him, perched on top of his bo staff like it was a cane or an umbrella. Gordon was stoic, all brown and gray hair and thick glasses and moustache. The squareness of the guy’s face inset a certain reservation to him, and you could see, from how his hands trembled in his pockets where he thought we couldn’t tell, he was feeling as old as he looked.

"Son, I just want to talk." The Commissioner said, taking out a pack of smokes. He offered me one. "Cigarette?"

Nicotine was whispering in my ear to say yes. The physical need was making my fingers itch, but instead I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. He shrugged before he put it between his lips and lit it, the smoldering end glaring light off his square glasses.

"I want you to bring me Falcone," Gordon said simply, as if it were that easy.

I rolled my eyes beneath my mask. "Sure, you want fries with that?" I shook my head, and tried to keep my voice even. "Not a chance. He doesn't deserve to live...he's mine."

"I want to bust him for that hostage situation as much as you do," He pointed at me, "But he's got a long list of victims to face...You're not the only one who wants him dead."

I thought about Abigail in her armchair back at her apartment, how she had gotten so angry so fast when I merely implied she didn't know Falcone. "I'm aware."

"Listen to me, kid-"

"Whoah, Gordon," I stepped closer, glaring at him through the mask. "I'm  _not_  a kid. You've seen the worst of me...you should know better. Don't you remember?"

I can't remember a time I'd been so drunk with rage and unrestrained wrath as when I finally cornered Batman. I'd gotten a vantage point and a sniper rifle, venting my traumas and my deepest pain across the entire room while Bruce roamed the room. He got to me eventually and I had to run. But in that dark head space I had forgotten Gordon entirely. Had the guy tied to a chair, the damn police Commissioner and I'm up there spilling my guts. He knew my name...and that I was supposed to be dead. But I guess when you're in Gotham, you learn to plan for the curve balls.

I watched his army green eyes narrow as he stood his ground. "I remember...but you know what I think happened in there?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"You were Robin," Gordon said this with a grain of reverence and respect I never expected to get from him. "And I heard you say that you spent a year with the clown, and I saw you shoot to free Batman."

"Get to the point." I said, gritting my teeth against that voice in my head laughing as Jim rattled off the details of Joker's failure to corrupt me permanently. "I'm losing my patience."

"You may kill criminals without hesitation or remorse, and I can't condone your methods of intimidation," He paused to drag on his smoke, "But I believe you'll make the right decision when it counts."

I couldn't help myself. I laughed at him. I laughed at this, and from the look on his face, that unnerved him. Maybe I sounded like Joker to him. I froze, and glanced at Robin who'd been quiet this whole time.

"And why aren't you saying anything?" I directed at Tim lightly, strolling over to him, "You wouldn't be here if he hadn't put you up to this. You agree with him?"

Tim drew back his hood, and he held a deadpan sarcasm that got annoying pretty damn quick. "I agree that you're not that much of a sociopath as you've made yourself seem."

"Sociopathic tendencies," I corrected automatically, and Tim lifted his eyebrows. "I didn't make the nut job team but there's always tryouts next year." A dark chuckle was muffled in the vents of my mask. I darted my eyes between them. "Did you two  _really_  think you could convince me to just deliver Falcone to you once I got my hands on him?"

When they didn't say anything, I threw my hands out to them. "Look at you! The Commissioner and Boy Wonder, trying to convince a guy you've both screwed over not to get even. You're desperate to end my feud for me, before I hit my stride!" I stormed, jabbing a finger at Robin, who flinched,"I risked my neck for  _you_ , let Falcone go so you'd be safe for Barbara's sake...the least you could do is let me take out the man who made that necessary. And  _you,"_ I turned onto Gordon, who didn't, "On Halloween, I could've ordered my men to kill you at any second if I was in the mood. You’re still breathing because I allowed it, and now I'm doing your job better than you and the old man...and you just can't take it."

"That's the issue, ain't it?" I gestured to Gotham with a sweeping wave of my arm, "All this city and it's just not big enough.”

Robin tried to put his hand on my shoulder but I moved away. "Red Hood, you can't wage a war, throw innocents into the crossfire and kill whoever gets in your way just to get to one man."

"I told you, Robin,” I hated repeating myself, and right now, my blood boiled. “He’s focused on me now. I was hoping that you weren’t that naive and that I wouldn’t have to spell it out for you again, but I guess I was wrong.” I jerked my chin at Gordon, kept my eyes on Tim,“See this guy? He wouldn’t hesitate to throw us behind bars if he didn’t need us. He’d rather us become cops and play nice with murderers.”

“That’s not true, dammit, and you know it,” Gordon growled, and rushed up to me, seizing the collar of my jacket with both hands. I considered pushing him off me for a split second, but I decided I’d let him get it out of his system.

He looked at me like he did at any other criminal, with years of grief and fundamental disdain.“The only murderer I’m playing nice with is  _you_ , because my  _friend_ asked me to look after you. You, Tim, Dick Grayson and Barbara. You think I didn’t know about you all before he told me who he was? You think I wouldn’t recognize the same smart-mouthed punk that ran around taping signs to my back years ago?”

He released me with a small shove backwards. “I need you, Jason, you’re right. The GCPD can’t be everywhere, and we certainly wouldn’t have stood a chance against your army on Halloween if it wasn’t for Bruce Wayne. But that sure as hell doesn’t mean we won’t make a stand. Your feud with Falcone will force him to endanger people just to draw you out...bring him to me, let me deal with him within the law for his crimes...which include offenses much worse than holding children hostage, mind you.”

“Like what?” My voice dipped into that dangerous tone, and my fingers ached to shoot something, break things, write my name in fire. He hesitated. “Gordon, unless you get me some full disclosure, I’m mailing you Falcone’s head.”

Gordon stared at me for a second, as if he didn’t think I was seriously going to do it. He knew better. “Fine...Years before he left for Bludhaven, when I was just a detective, Falcone was a necessary evil. He controlled the crime and the cops that would blackmail each other and kill suspects that could incriminate him to stay in the Don’s good graces. The GCPD was far more rotten than it is now. Few officers went after him, because they usually ended up dead or tortured, then made into an example.” He held up two fingers. “He had two guys he kicked every one of his enemies to. Calendar Man and Mr. Zsasz.”

“I thought about Day myself,” I nodded, “But he’s been in Belle Reeve since Arkham City was shut down and hasn’t been moved.”

“That leaves Zsasz,” Robin said,“He’s in Stryker’s Island for life after he attacked Maggie Sawyer for denying him a victim and a mark.”

“Falcone assigned a ‘handler’ to each of them,” Gordon reached into the breast pocket of his coat and gave me two photographs, Robin looked over my shoulder, “This handler provided transportation, information and both owed Falcone a lot more than they could pay back in their lifetime.”

The one on top I recognized, all amber eyes and too much hairspray,“Gabriel Winters, editor of the  _Gotham Gazette._ ”

“Exactly,” The Commissioner stubbed out his smoke with his shoe. “Gabe was assigned to Calendar Man.” Gordon coughed, which he never did. I narrowed my eyes. He was leaving things out. “The other handler was a Dr. Sarah Cassidy.”

I flipped the photos. I smirked. Well  _hello,_ Doc Cassidy. She’s a looker, and I’m gonna guess that it got her into trouble.

“She was working in Arkham Asylum the night Joker took over,” Robin informed us, “Apparently she was abducted by Zsasz and rescued later by Batman.”

“Sawyer sent me a confession record of him saying he killed Cassidy a few months later because she wanted to rehabilitate him and he would hear nothing of it,” Gordon shook his head.  

Called it.

“Who’s handling Zsasz now?" I asked, giving him the pictures back.

"We're working on it," Gordon didn't seem to happy about that, "I've got Detective Bullock assigned to the Falcone matter. You two find anything, you talk to him. Hood," He outstretched a hand, "You bring me Falcone, and once he's been processed legally, he's yours. Deal?"

My stomach twisted. This didn't feel right. Gordon tossing my target to me on a silver plate?  _Gordon?_  I glanced at Robin, glad that the hood allowed me to do it discreetly. He didn't seem astonished or anything. Great. Now they've teamed up. Way to sell out to your future in-law, Timmy. Way to go, pal. I just  _love_  being thrown under the bus. Ask Bruce. Gives me the warm fuzzies.

I gritted my teeth and took Jim's hand tightly. It took a lot to keep my voice even. "Deal."

As long as they think I'll honor my end, they're predictable. Robin will watch me out of the uniform and Jimbo will watch me in it.

I turned my back on them both, climbing over the railing. "Watch your backs."

I dove off into the night.

................

All night, I did my best to take my mind from the fact that the police Commissioner and my replacement were setting me up. Nausea and nicotine withdrawal sent mixed messages to my fists throughout my patrols. The churning in my gut wanted me to stop, go home to Abigail and resign the night to a breather. The firecrackers in my synapses, on the other hand, wanted me to fight until I died.

I didn't blame Gordon. To him, I could easily be labeled a threat to public safety and the part he was leaving out could be someone who wants Falcone dead even more than I do. But Tim...I'd thought we were getting somewhere the night I paid the Iceberg Lounge a visit. He didn't trust me. Maybe he never did. That shouldn't bother me. But in that insecure shell just below my flesh and bones, I knew that Tim was the Robin I could never be. The Robin I'd tried with all I had to be but it was a stolen skin I wasn't enough to slink in.

I leapt from rooftop to rooftop, lungs burning in my chest and a stitch in my side. I'd had enough for one night. It was a jump from an apartment building to the coffeeshop next door that I screwed up the landing. My ankle tweaked, the hot asphalt sweltered me in my leather as I fell. My shoulder nailed the surface hard, and I grunted as the impact made a smack. I laid there for a moment, stunned and wheezing.

I watched each of my fingers move through the loose gravel on the roof, helping me to straighten myself against the raised edge of the building. I sat up, my hands on my thighs and my ankle throbbing. Bad ligaments, given me issues for years. Joker broke it when he had me and it never healed right. Crime to fight, asses to kick. You get the gist. I looked to the skies, where the clouds hung low with threats of rain. "Go on...drown me."

Weirdly, it started with a few drops. Once I had my hood off and my bare face was slathered in the breeze, a decent drizzle was coming down. I ran a hand through my helmet head, and sighed.

"They want you to do well," This was a newer lesson, "But never better."

My eyes caught the spire of the old church in the slums a few blocks away. The tower of the church hadn't been repaired, and the holes from an explosion that happened in Arkham City had been sloppily boarded shut. During my siege seven months ago, cops who couldn't make it back to GCPD found sanctuary in that church...and they'd retreated to the upper levels when the Cloudburst released Crane's toxin.

I was the one somebody who could have stopped all of that. And what did I do? I drove around in that monster tank with the Cloudburst. Scarecrow? He wanted Bruce to suffer. I was willing to make it quick...But I had to compromise to meet our ends. So I babysat the Cloudburst...The whiffs I had of the stuff....moldy straw, and it scorched the lungs like they were made of straw too. Some nights I wake up and I can still smell it. There were moments like those...the city of fear, my year with Joker, my mom’s overdose...that always lingered in the back of my head when I heard people talking about God. It filled me with an icy dread...because any God who would think to save me was kidding Himself.

I glared around through the rain, which was picking up.The fire station wasn't far yet, I was in Park Row. If I suffered this ankle for a bit longer...I'd be home. I was so tired. My arms felt heavy when I lifted my mask to fasten it on again. I used the edge of the roof as a crutch to push myself upright. My ankle buckled, and I dropped onto that knee. Come on, Todd. Just a bit further.

I tried again, and my ankle held this time.


	22. The Hope that Starts the Broken Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail has found the tank in Jason's closet, and the skeletons in there are demanding that he confess his sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Were you born to resist or be abused?
> 
> ...Has someone taken your faith?
> 
> Its real, the pain you feel
> 
> The life, the love you'd die to heal
> 
> The hope that starts the broken hearts
> 
> You trust, you must
> 
> Confess.”
> 
> Foo Fighters, “Best of You”

 

The ziplining method of entry likely was going to screw my ankle worse, so I entered through the only window with access to a fire escape: the kitchen. I unlocked the cage over the glass, and went feet - first through the small space. The front of my boots hit my kitchen table, jostling the array of guns and gun parts around. I swore under my breath once I was through the window and saw the mess. I got off the table and fixed everything back to where it was.

She should have heard that. I called out, my voice bouncing from the walls, “Gail? I’m home…”

My nerves prickled to alertness, my shoulders involuntarily stiffening and as my jacket slid from my arms and onto the heat run by the door, I glared through my fire station for any sign of her. I checked the dorms. The blankets were folded and put on the shelves. I poked my head into my office, her backpack was gone. I frowned. Did she leave?

The bathroom door was half-open, so I doubted she was in there. My stomach twisted, then I found myself running down the stairs. She found the tank, she’s going to hate my guts, she found the tank, she found the tank-

I reached the bottom, and dead in my tracks, saw Abigail sitting cross-legged on top of the Cobra tank with her laptop balanced on her knees. And when she looked up from the screen to me, her eyes narrowed. Immediately, she moved her laptop to her side and made her way down the ladder to her left. I backed away slowly, my hands lifted like I was warding away a police officer, “Abigail, I can explain the tank.”

“Okay, hey, Gail, c’mon-” She stormed over, almost sprinting and shoved me to the wall hard. I pressed my palms against the cold wall behind me, watching her hyperventilate.

A weird part of my mind wondered if this was how I looked to criminals when they saw me coming: twitching a bit, panting breaths like a bull thirsty for red, and in entire abandonment of any semblance of restraint. Her hair was disheveled, and I could see her pulse raising in her throat. Her hands were rapidly opening and closing. The steadiness, the still calm I always pictured her with was gone. Entirely gone. No restraint...

And Abigail usually had plenty of restraint.

“Calm down,” I attempted as gently as I possibly could, “You’ll irritate your asthma-” By the way her eyes widened in offense, I knew I’d fucked up. “Okay, Ga- _hail!-_ ”

I didn’t try to block her right hook colliding into my nose, which didn’t break it but let me say, the woman could throw a punch. I recoiled, and wiped my upper lip when I felt warmth ooze from my nostrils, glancing at the red on my finger. Not bad.

“ _Screw_ my asthma,” She breathed, her brow furrowed and she stared at me, searching my eyes for any sign of another reason to knock my head from my shoulders.

“I argue the possibility that you were the Arkham Knight. Premise one: the tank is a Cobra drone, used by the Arkham Knight in his siege on Gotham. It's being here allows for the logical counter that you had purchased the item." She had dimples in her cheeks that formed when she ranted, "But the insignia, that  _damned_ insignia on the side wasn't painted over. Any businessman worth his salt would remove it or paint over it for resale to avoid bad press about its track record. Premise two: you are highly efficient and a resourceful tactician, both are traits that the position would require. Premise three: you refuse to abide by Batman's defining rule against killing, and do so with a certain contempt. The Arkham Knight was intimately familiar with Batman's methods, techniques, and devices. And after the Arkham Knight disappears, the Red Hood appears with similar stature and a bat on his chest."

I crossed my arms. She was on a roll, and the invisible blade under my ribs was getting closer to my heart with every word. I had wanted, the morning after we'd met, to be despicable enough to stay away from for her own safety...I suppose I was getting my wish.

"Premise four, and here is the most compelling piece of evidence: both the Arkham Knight and the Red Hood can kill with next to no remorse." She stepped backwards, hugging her arms around herself. "Therefore, it is my conclusion that the Arkham Knight of Halloween and the Red Hood of the last six months, are one and the same person...you."

Abigail, for all her smallness, never once seemed shy or unconfident. But none of her supernova optimism was present here, as she might have been begging - weren't it for something she knew she wouldn't get, "Please, Jason, tell me I am wrong."

I could have lied, sure. I might have gotten away with telling her that she had it all wrong, that the guy she saw me kill yesterday was the Arkham Knight instead and I killed him to make her safe. Or that I'd killed the Arkham Knight and had gotten vengeance for what he had done to Gotham. But if I lied to her, she would know it in a second. And I would be a coward.

There are burned and blackened bits of me that Joker left there, but a great deal more had been there a while longer. But as I nodded, and saw the hope leave Abigail's eyes, it was as if a third fire was rekindled in my heart. I felt it slowly burn outward, my chest crumpling like flaming paper as she covered her hand with her mouth. I reached out to her but she moved away as if I'd swung at her with a machete, and the rest of me caught fire beneath my skin and compressed in a single point in my chest, building pressure.

"I've been so stupid, so foolish," She whispered through her fingers, turning her back to me. She shook her head, blonde hair bouncing and released a haggard breath that made me cringe in something like the child of shame and dread. When she spoke again, her voice quivered like her hands, "There's a Wayne Foundation - funded shelter and clinic that specializes in dealing with the aftermath, with the fear toxin dispersed on what is now called Fear Halloween...I volunteered to see exactly what my thesis was arguing for the existence and possibility of," She faced me again and what she told me I never forgot. She stared at the ground with a purpose, "which was complete and unrelenting social terror...Evacuated families whose homes and businesses had been destroyed by your militia, left their jobs and livelihood in Gotham because they were terrified of something similar happening again. Because it was no longer a robbery on a bank in the business district, it wasn’t a riot at Arkham Asylum or Blackgate, it wasn't a murder in Crime Alley...the war was on their doorstep. It forced them out of their homes, and some families were separated and still have no clue where their loved ones went in the evacuation."

Abigail wiped at her eyes, and I felt sicker than I'd ever felt. Like my face might boil off in a heap of mangled flesh and I dug my fingernail into the tip of my thumb as my cheek hurt. She continued, "I only visited the clinic section of the building once...and I still have nightmares about the young woman screaming her lungs out at the nurse to see her husband...he had been killed at the Ace Chemicals plant when Scarecrow took over. She suffered from severe sleep deprivation because she forced herself to stay and wake to avoid the pain of going to sleep alone. She had a miscarriage due to the stress..."

I pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw stars, a strangled noise coming out of me. "Stop, just....stop..."

But she didn't. "I never thought I’d meet the man responsible. Let alone save his life and befriend him."

I lowered my hands, and interrogated her uneasily, unsure if I ever wanted to know the answer, "Do you wish you'd left me to die?"

"No," She said automatically, meeting my eyes, "But I wish I hadn't started to care whether or not you do."

Something in my chest wrung tight and before I knew what I was saying, the sarcasm slipped from my tongue, “That’s really comforting, thank you. Did you stop and wonder why?”

She return-fired, just as hotly, “I was hoping you had enough dignity to defend yourself. Although I'm not entirely sure what would justify-”

“I'm not justifying what I did,” I cut her off, advancing to her and getting in her face, “I will regret this more than anything else.”

“Then  _why_ ,” She threw up her hands, her voice elevating to a shout, “ _Why_ make  _war_  on an entire city-”

When you rigged something to blow, there were small materials packed around the devices that would tear through flesh and whatever else crossed its path. And it’s louder than you expect and before you know it, it’s over and you’re lying there with bleeding limbs. So when my ears rung as the bomb in my chest exploded, all I knew of what happened was that my fist was now lodged in the plaster wall and that my throat had been razed when I’d roared at her:

“ _I DIED!”_

And oh, how I felt like I was  _radiating_  pain through my pores. I was on full display, and watching her eyes search mine...like every one of my secrets was being organized on a table as killing tools.

"I died," I was saying again, but it sounded far away. A couple of good yanks and my hand was out of the wall. I inspected the scrapes on my knuckles that burned as I talked. "And it never mattered."

"Jason..." She whispered, "I don't understand..."

If I was ever going to tell her, I figured, now was the time. I gathered air in my lungs and bled, "Batman wouldn't kill the Joker. So I decided to do it for him..." Her face drained of color as my throat cracked with bitterness, "I tracked him to Arkham Asylum, and all I found was Hell."

My fingers came to unbuckle the straps of my kevlar armor which was held together in places by duct tape. It fell free and hit the floor with a muted smack. I could feel the awkward self-consciousness as it crept up my arms that my wife beater left bare. There were fewer scars there; winding lines like train tracks around the cords of muscle, thick skin on my hands and elbows where I'd been burned and thrown, rings from tugging at restraints and my neck had ghost marks of nooses where Joker dragged me from barbed wire chair to the hook he dangled me from. A scar that ran along my carotid. This wasn't the last of them. I kicked a stool closer to me and sat down, so that Abigail and I were at eye-level. I had the hem of my wife beater in my fingers, and sucked in a deep breath.

I took it off.

Her hand flew to her mouth and I winced, looking at my body. The glaring section of scar tissue were the impact scars where my collarbones and my sternum had splintered as the crowbar beat into me. In the center of my chest, a scar where Joker had pushed a hot knife just to see how loud I screamed had left a raised red butterfly-like mark. But if you gazed long enough, you could see the finer scars along my ribs where the clown had tied my arms and legs away and burned my sides. The barbed wire scars continued onto my back, accompanied by spidery lines that coiled over my upper arms where he'd gotten creative with a whip.

Hesitantly, she hovered a hand above a whipping scar and then glanced at me as if asking permission. It wasn't curiosity, I saw, but just that she wanted to know. She wanted to  _see_  me, which didn't do much to ease my nausea at the whole enterprise.

I nodded against any and all better judgment, and from the minute her skin touched mine, goosebumps raised. Probably lucky for me that most of my flesh was raised scar tissue anyway. She brushed her hand over the tiger stripe scars on my arms and gingerly made her way slowly onto my chest. We were close enough that her soft and steady breathing ruffled the hair that hung in my eyes.

"The Joker ripped me to shreds," I said as her hand explored the history cut into my body, "Piece by piece - hope by hope...I left more on that floor than I picked back up and carried with me..I couldn't-"

I sucked in a breath, squeezing my eyes shut. I croaked, "I didn't...walk out of there with everything. I had to choose what I kept, and lost everything anyway."

"He said he wanted me to tell him about Batman. Every day he asked me. But I told him to wish in one hand and bleed in the other....see which one filled up first, because I'd sooner die. He didn’t like that one bit..." Her hand stopped at my neck, and I caught her gaze. Her eyes were bluer somehow, like the nighttime would be in the coming summer.

"For fifteen months, ten days, four hours - I endured broken limbs, punctured lungs, burns, barbed wire, whippings..."  Her hand found my cheek, and she acknowledged the 'J' for the very first time, running the tip of her finger along the curve. "Brands. I was just a kid...and he made me into something that wasn't even human. Wasn't even me..."

“I…” She shook her head, tracing the ‘J’ over and over, “I don't know what to say.”

“Say you understand,” Her hand fell from my face when I spoke, “..that when I came back to find that the man who taught me how to fight evil left the fate of my murderer to an accident instead of  _justice_ , that I had to make it right myself. My aim was to kill Batman. Gail, I was…” I closed my eyes, searching for words. I could sense her fingertips by my eyelashes, and my hands ached. “...high on rage and pain...When I finally let him know that I was alive and hunting him, he told me it wasn't too late...that the destruction I'd brought to Gotham could be fixed. That I was more than what Joker had done to me.”

Gradually, she tore herself from my...my ruins and, I assumed, was trying to process what I’d told her, what she’d seen. While I had the chance, I plucked my undershirt from the floor and shimmied it on. A wash of relief followed it, and suddenly, I felt isolated. Even though we were just a few paces apart, it felt like an ocean and two continents were between us.

“Say...something, anything.” I ventured. I wouldn’t push her. At this point, I was glad she didn’t sprint for the door. I’ll take what I could get.

Her voice acted like it wasn’t part of her, detached somehow. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” I deflated, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“My anger for what you did as Arkham Knight did not go away,” She admitted, and I couldn’t help myself attempting to see pity in her eyes as I used to do with Bruce. But she didn’t. “But I cannot imagine what you endured…”

That was only fair. “I don't expect my sob story to change anything or justify what I did. Just for you to understand.”

“Oh, I do understand,” This side of her always made me wary, and I was never more aware of just how much I didn’t know about her. But she did talk like it was from experience, and that worried me. “You felt unfulfilled..he stood by while a madman destroyed his son without any consequences. You wanted revenge, against the murderer and the man who let it happen. Because they weren’t the same person...And you had issues with that. You felt that he chose something else over you, something that you never understood no matter how hard you tried to see it his way.” She shot me a sideways glance. “Am I close?”

A little too close. “Bullseye.”

It began with her hands, uncrossing and clenching into tiny fists, then migrated up her arms to her shoulders, which became rigid angles. When it festered in her throat, the muscles in her neck stuck out as she grinded her teeth like she did when she slept, but when it got to her eyes - the only method I had to attest her mood - I recognized that kind of wrath. Even though it wasn’t my own violent flavor, it was righteous and dug a bit closer to home than I was prepared for.

“The difference between you and me, Jason,” She thundered, and jabbed a finger at her chest,”...is that when I wanted revenge against my mother's killer, I restrained my pain and took every measure to keep it within myself. I would be no one's victim. I had the means to exact revenge, but I couldn't. But you? _You made sure everyone_  felt it or a version of it. You wanted the world to rue the day you died and show people what it was like to be failed by the Batman…”

I scoffed dryly, “Because bottling your anger is so much healthier.”

“ _My anger_  didn't get people hurt.”

Okay. That stung.

“I didn't care about how it turned out for me, as long as people I cared about didn't suffer for my misfortune…” She huffed breaths in and out, getting upset. She took a minute to regulate herself; she was invested in this justification...it was important to her to bury herself to keep everyone safe. “As for Batman... It's heartwarming that he forgave you. Truly, it is...and what I said before, about believing in your method of combating the criminal element...that hasn't changed.” She was holding back. “You saved my life and you have been a friend to me…”

Somewhere in me, I appreciated her saying that, but I cut to the chase. “But you can’t forgive that.”

Her blonde hair shifted slightly, and she said, “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already,” I squinted, and decided to explore something, “I get it. Takes more than six months of fighting to erase things like that from your record. I get why you'd want to wipe yours clean.”

When her face blanked and her eyes flew wide, I knew I was on the right track. “A friend of mine researched you. You're not on any records. Gotham...or otherwise.”

"That....is none of your concern." A muscle in her cheek jumped.

"What? We can talk about my past but we can't discuss yours?" I stood, and walked over to her, gauging her expression to see how far I could push her until she broke, "Did you do something terrible too? Because, say, if someone took a peek at your record, would you'd sleep at night?  Because there wasn't anything to find...or that they couldn't find it if they checked?"

She glared at me hard, and it was looking at the sun then. Later, she was melting everything else into that single image of her hatred no matter where I turned.

Abigail suddenly marched over to my tank, climbed the ladder halfway to grab her backpack and her laptop. She unzipped the top and crammed the computer in forcefully; I eyed her in confusion as she threw her hair into a bun and slung the bag over her shoulder.  

I caught her arm when she tried to pass me heading for the side door out of the station. "You're leaving?"

She jerked her arm away, and declared like it was news to me, "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Being left to die by your father figure does that to you," I snarked back before I could stop myself, "Messes you up in the worst ways."

She laughed for the first time today, "You really want to do that right now? Here? Plead insanity in Gotham?"

I didn't answer her; I would've loved to scream at her, but in my gut, I knew she was right. And I kinda hated it.

"No? That would be wise," She adjusted her shoulder strap, and started for the door. "I'm leaving. I accepted your help because knowing your way around a gun doesn't do much against trained killers. But right now, I'd rather take my chances than stay here."

I rubbed a hand down my forehead and over my eyes in barely-concealed frustration and mental fatigue. "Jesus, am I speaking Greek or something? If Falcone got his hands on you tomorrow-"

She had her hand on the doorknob, streetlights lightening the edges of her hair from the skinny window inset into the door. She spoke with a finality, like the topic was nearly closed to discussion. “-I would endure.”

“But you would be doing it for a guy that disgusts you,” I was rooted to the spot with icy insides, though I wanted to handcuff her to something just so she’d be here and safe and not being stupid. “As reasons go for being tortured, that’s a pretty shitty one.”

“You don’t disgust me, Jason,” She sounded exhausted, “You don’t scare me either. You, Falcone...or Joker.”

This chick had a death wish.“You should be.”

“I’d rather be at the mercy of murderers than my conscience.”

She slammed the door behind her, and I was alone.

As the seconds got longer, my heartbeat grew louder and louder until it was gonging in my head. I couldn’t get a deep-enough breath. My knuckles burned. I couldn’t...I couldn’t think.

She was gone. My feet were moving, and when they stopped, I was in front of my dining room table covered with gun parts. The black metal glittered under the sunlight filtering in. My fingertips curled under the edge of the table and with a choked howl, I flipped it. Ammunition and heavy slabs of black rained onto the floor at my feet.

“ _DAMMIT!”_ I shouted again, driving my fist through the wood of the table on its side and breaking it clean in half. I fell to my knees in defeat.


	23. Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thousands of miles away in the Mexican wilderness, Bane is taking Harley onto the Island of the Dolls to find what he has been searching for since he was experimented on by Dr. Penelope Young...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Apathy their stepping stone
> 
> So unfeeling
> 
> Hidden deep animosity
> 
> So deceiving
> 
> Through your eyes their light burns
> 
> Hoping to find
> 
> Inquisition sinking you
> 
> With prying minds”
> 
> Metallica, “...And Justice For All”

 

The metallic tubes that entered his body at the base of his neck were slick with condensation as the cool Venom circulated through Bane’s warm veins. He was well-adjusted to Latin American heat and humidity, though he missed the cool breeze of his homeland that this Mexican wilderness sorely lacked.  

 

One of his hands was holding a GPS locator, barking orders in Spanish to the man at the rear of the boat controlling the motor. His other hand was clasped tight onto the iron collar around Harley's neck, not wanting to give another reason to kill to the woman who'd slaughtered twenty more of his men after the man who had brought in that first breakfast after she'd been kidnapped.

 

Bane regarded her warily, his eyes lingering on the blood that coated her mouth and ran down her neck, none of it her own blood. The torn, spotted shirt where she'd fashioned a noose to strangle a couple of guys, and her arms were stained black and crimson up to her elbows. Her blonde pigtails were tangled dreads of blood and sweat. She had fought this with everything she had, and Harley Quinn hadn't stopped staring at Bane with wide, blue eyes since they'd pried her off her last victim to go on the last leg of this journey. She didn't struggle when she saw her captor, however, but simply looked at him as if counting the numerous ways that she could dismember him.

 

And then she spoke, in that shrill and childlike voice of hers, "Tell me somethin'. Why go to all this trouble? I killed a bunch of your guys and you're still keeping me around." She shook her head and a slick pigtail touched his arm, leaving a red stripe. "Does it have something to do with your accident this morning?"

 

Bane’s lungs began to burn as he recalled it, growling low in his throat.

........

 

**HOURS BEFORE**

 

He walked like a lion surveying his lands, all shoulders, and with his head held high. With all that Bane had done, he achieved his goal. He lined the twelve heads of the hydra of corruption rotting Santa Prisca, and had destroyed Peña Duro, where he was born. But what all things worth having come at a price.

 

Bane could feel the pressure in his lungs as he rounded the corner towards his captive's holding cell. In truth, he had not regretted the body count of guards sent to bring Harley food. He handpicked them. Men that had worked for the drug lords dealing Venom, now sought his employ...and the first job Bane gave them was looking after the  _payaso's_  woman. It would be worth it in the end, he told himself.

 

She sat atop the bodies, cross-legged, filthy and drenched as if she underwent a blood baptism. But her blue eyes held no life, as if there truly was not anyone home. Or maybe there  _was_ someone home, but they had company and couldn't be bothered to come to the door. Harley mumbled under her breath, cursing at someone who wasn't there - that is, if she wasn't cursing Bane himself.

 

Bane regarded her uneasily, and then said stiffly to the two shaking guards by the glass, careful of his lungs. "Today's the day." He snapped his fingers and then told the woman in the cell, calmly, "If you cooperate, I won't put a muzzle on you. But if you don't, I'll break you in half."

 

"I'd say 'go to hell'," She raised her red hands and gestured to the corpses all around her; a giggle rang out of her lips, "But I'm already there. And it looks like I won, huh?" She slowly stood on her hill of bodies and in a rush, slammed her fists onto the glass.

 

"You hear that, Bane?  _I won hell!_

 

They can take my puddin' away, not once but  _twice!_  They can take my baby away, and if that wasn't enough, Ivy's gone too!" Agony drove the tears down her cheeks as she smashed her hands against the glass, leaving smeared red handprints. She screamed at him, "Everybody I've ever cared about is long gone! I'm alone. But if you wanna steal the last scrap I've got, you're gonna have to fight me for it...Drop  _dead."_

 

Bane battled down a hiccup, and lifted his hand, his guards posted on both sides of the glass expectant of what order he'll give. But his gut heaved in suddenly, a muscle twitch and it was too much to hold it in. He collapsed onto his knees and a stream of hot blood erupted from his mouth. He heard the high-pitched squeals of laughter from Quinn. The loyal guard he briefed about this bolted back through the corridor to Bane's office, and the new guard swearing under his breath as Bane coughed blood mixed with a green liquid onto the hard floor. It splattered in front of him, and he stared at the mess, cursing the  _bruja_ for yet another time. He struggled to breathe, his metal tubes burning the back of his neck, and each attempt to exhale was a bubble of blood. He had nearly drowned several times, but never like this. Never drowning from within.

 

Rapid footsteps sounded again, getting closer and a syringe was pushed into Bane's hand. Flicking off the cap, he plunged the needle into the bulging vein in the curve of his elbow. The burning died gradually as he had almost done, and he coughed up the rest of the blood that had flooded his lungs. He pushed himself to his feet, and glared at the woman in stitches laughing behind the glass with her bloody palms splayed apart.

 

"Mistah J, you were right!” She had said between maniacal giggles, reminding him that when he embarked on this journey...he had wanted this. “Wishes do come true!"

.......

 

Bane put down the GPS locator to pluck the leather muzzle from his belt and, holding her breakable neck in his massive hand, covered her mouth with the mask. She tried to duck backwards, mumbling beneath the leather. He fastened the straps behind her head, and sighed dramatically.

 

"Ahhh, much better," He said, grinning as he grabbed the locator again and ignoring her murderous stare. The guard behind him chuckled, and followed Bane's instructions the rest of the trip in silence.

 

When they got to the island, it was twilight and orange sunset was filtering through the lagoon cypresses, glittering about the waters. The Dolls that gave the island its name hung from the trees from ropes around their midsections and their necks, and Bane detected fear in his prisoner, seeing goosebumps raise on her pasty white skin. There was no denying the mystique to the place, as the shadows and the dolls became one as day extinguished into unyielding night. He would say that he could feel the eeriness of being watched from the shores, if he did not know that there were far worse things awaiting them on the island than vengeful spirits, or even demons.

 

But even if the Titan had claimed his lungs and warred with the Venom within him, he had confidence in his body. It failed him more consistently in recent months, but he was still alive.

 

"There," He pointed to a low-hanging willow, and as the guard propelled them closer, he held the tendrils away so the boat wouldn't be tangled in the tree.

 

When they got closer to shore, Bane jumped into the water and tethered the boat to the base of the tree, tying a secure knot. The guard remained in the boat, but Bane gathered Harley in an arm and threw her over his shoulder. She squealed beneath her muzzle armed tried to kick him, but he held her ankles together with one hand.

 

To the guard, he ordered grimly, "If I don't return in an hour, wipe this island off the map. Understood?"

 

“Y-yes, sir.”

 

Bane left his comrade there, starting his trek deeper into the island. The humidity only rose from there, and sweat collected on Bane’s forehead, making him thankful that he did not wear his mask. Harley would squirm now and then, but he kept a firm grip.

 

As he walked, he caught glimpses of shadows moving about the canopy. His lungs tightened. To ease both his anxiety and her restless body, he spoke, “Do you know why this island is covered in dolls, _señorita?”_ She grumbled beneath her muzzle. “No? I’ll tell you the story.”

 

“Long ago, a small girl drowned in the waters near here,” Bane said, his voice solemn. He knew the hardships of children all too well, “It is not known how she drowned, if she was swimming or if someone drowned her. The caretaker of this island found the girl, dead. Shortly after, a doll washed ashore...he hung it in a tree to pay his respects to the  _salido._ He believed the doll had absorbed her spirit, and, in an attempt to comfort the child, hung more dolls to the trees. For fifty years, he did so, haunted by the girl and other spirits that possessed the dolls…” He stopped by a tree, and lifted the little arm of a doll with his finger. Harley was quiet at his back.

 

“Those who come here claim that the arms move, the eyes open and whisper to each other. A community of dolls...suspended in the trees.”

 

Harley mumbled under her breath, and Bane took a chance. He let her down, and looked her over. He raised his hands, and she flinched back. He explained, “I’m going to take the muzzle off.” He reached behind her head and unfastened the leather straps. It came free, and Harley scrunched her face up, as if to relax the facial muscles.  “Better?”

 

“Yeah…thanks,” She eyed him carefully, and glanced around the forest of miniatures. “Is that story...is it true?”

 

“Look around,  _señorita,”_ He gestured to the trees. “The proof has us surrounded.”

 

Harley timidly walked over to an ancient barkless tree, and examined a doll in front of her. Its arms and legs were gone, but it had blonde hair caked with mud and milky glass orbs for eyes. The doll’s face was covered in a dark brownish substance.“Hey...this one looks like me…” Her hands were tied at her lower back and she fidgeted. “Can you untie me?”

 

He arched an eyebrow, crossing his massive arms. “For?”

 

“Please...I know somebody’s gonna kill me in this place,” Her blue eyes pleaded with him, “I just want to hold it...let the girl know I’m friendly.”

 

Because he did not doubt that he could incapacitate her if he needed to, despite his health, he produced a knife from his pocket and sliced through her bindings.

 

She rubbed her wrists tenderly, tapping her chapped lips and wincing. Bane saw how cracked they were. But it did not stop Harley from quickly taking the rope off from the doll’s neck that held it there, and clutching the doll close, stroking its hair. She pressed her lips to the doll’s forehead, shutting her eyes tight.

 

Bane’s mouth fell half-open, taken aback. He knew that it was forbidden and somewhat of a death wish to remove the dolls from the trees...but that wasn’t what surprised him. She was holding the doll like a mother would an infant, as if she’d practiced this a million times. Harley’s one hand was supporting the neck, the other under the baby’s bottom. Did the  _payaso…?_ He wished he knew how to ask the question without offending her or driving her to madness once more. He decided better of it.

 

“What happened to the caretaker?” Her question broke him out of his thoughts.

 

He cleared his throat. “He died...drowned in the same spot the first girl did...many who wander here are never seen again, likely drowned.”

 

“Have you ever drowned?” Her voice was fragile, and she bounced on the spot, as if soothing the fake child in her arms. “Like he did?”

 

She knew he had. He had so many times...Bane countered, his gaze nervous as he saw a shadow darting in his peripheral. “Have  _you_ , Harley?”

 

“Livin’ without him...without anyone,” Her lower lip pouted out sadly, “It’s worse than anything like that.”

 

“This morning...you said you had a child of your own,” He continued walking towards the meeting place, and she followed, the doll still in her arms. “But you lost it.”

 

She stopped in her tracks, glaring at him and crumpled her chest around the doll. Bane’s mouth went dry when he realized that she was trying to protect the doll from harm. “What’s it to ya?”

 

“Forget it,” He shook his head. “Let’s keep moving. We are not far yet.”

 

“Good idea,” She said bitterly, kissing the doll again.

 

When they did arrive at the meeting place, Bane noticed the smoke slowly billowing out of a hole on the roof of the abandoned hut. His business partner was already here. He saw the darker silhouettes of the people in the bushes against the hanging dolls, and placed a hand on Harley’s collar. She wrapped her arms around the doll, like she feared she would be pried from it and be parted forever. Bane guided her to the entrance of the hut, and the smell of charred animal made both of them wrinkle their noses.

 

A fire was burning in the center, and the crouched figure of a woman was in front of the flames. Something was staked above the fire to cook behind her, but neither Bane or Harley could see what it was. Two masked men were standing with the hilts of swords at their backs, and as the woman straightened, she shook her shoulder-length hair out.

 

Harley didn’t recognize this woman by her stature, but when the lady spoke, the thick Arabic accent had her blood boiling, “I was afraid you would not show, Bane. I was just cooking dinner.”

 

“ _You!_ ” Harley tucked the doll under her arm and were it not for Bane’s strong hand at her metal collar, she would have dove at the woman. “You’re supposed to be  _dead._ ”

 

“Quiet,  _señorita,”_ Bane barked at her, “Or I’ll silence you again.”

 

“You kept your end of the bargain,” The woman noted.

 

“Enough talk, Talia,” Bane insisted, thrusting Harley forward onto the ground. The two men rushed to either side of her and held their swords to her throat. “I want what I came for. Show it to me and the _payaso’s_ woman is yours.”

 

Talia al Ghul rolled her luminous green eyes, the light of the fire gleaming from them. She stepped forward with all the deadly grace of a bengal tiger, her feet choosing where they were placed and she bent at the waist. Her hand came to tilt Harley’s chin as if inspecting her spoils in this endeavor, ever the businesswoman, and Talia smiled. “Yes...you’ll do nicely for my goals.”

 

Harley angrily spat in the other woman’s face, and snarled, “ _My_ goal is killin’ you,  _painfully!_ ”

 

Talia recoiled, slowly wiping the saliva off her cheek. She collected herself, sucking in a strained breath before smacking Harley hard with the back of her hand. She threatened in a barely steady voice, “You only draw breath because I allow it. You only live because I deem you necessary. I have worked too long for this, and I finally finish my father’s work...So if you do not mind,” Talia hit her, enunciating each word with a strike, “ _do! as! I! command!_ ”

 

Harley slumped to the ground, her body a ball around the doll and soft cries came from her bleeding lips. Bane watched this exchange numbly, focused on his goal. He thought it awful for anyone to be broken and degraded as Harley had been, but he looked out for himself above all. He needed the cure.

 

“Get her out of here,” Talia ordered of the men, and together, they dragged the blonde woman out of the hut. Bane caught the flashing of her doll’s cloudy eyes from Harley’s arms as they passed him.

 

“Talia.” He demanded bluntly, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He knew there were more of her guard nearby and he felt an icy fear that he had never felt in his life. “My payment. Now.”

 

Something sharp and tiny hit his neck, and he heard a  _fsshhh_. He froze, searching his hand back there and he felt wetness, and a dart in the metallic tube that entered his body. He pulled the dart out, dazed, and looked at the pointed tip, coated with his Venom. His knees buckled, the poison coursing through his veins rapidly and he stared at Talia, his vision blurred. He croaked, “We h-had a...deal…why?”

 

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Talia’s teeth glinted in the light of the fire as she grinned. “This is a business dinner. Did you see what we’re having?”

 

She turned to the side, and as he died, the very last thing he saw was the stretched winged outline of a bat being licked by the flames. Its head had been cut off.


	24. Trouble Ain't Far Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's confession to Abigail tore off a lot of psychological scabs, and he's dealing with the aftermath when Dick drops by with news that could levy the power play in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But when I think of you, trouble ain't far behind
> 
> I want to tell you what I'm feeling
> 
> But the words won't come out right
> 
> You left me crying there's no denying
> 
> Turned my sunshine to the darkest nights”
> 
> Gary Moore, “Trouble Ain’t Far Behind”

 

A lot of people think the hardest part about scars is how they look. They're wrong.

It's when you bathe.

Hot water beating on my back like liquid thunder, and I did my best to just ignore how the water slithers through the divots left by whipping scars. I can't remember the last shower I took when my back was smooth, and the water fell straight down. My hands covered in suds, lather down a pair of thickly muscled arms that have killed people. The fruits of the clown's labor on my skin, and I was scrubbing hard in hopes the old damages will fall right off...and trying to do it with something that smelled like citrus.

The chest scars still hurt sometimes, like the brand on my cheek. But I cleaned that last, with cold water and steady fingers. I made sure to get all the edges, the slopes, the marred sections that will never feel like skin again. When I left the shower gasping, I wrapped a towel around my waist and threw another one over my head. It was warm, warmer than the chilly air that greeted me when I came out of the bathroom.

I got dressed in a pair of sweatpants I’d cut at the knees into shorts, and a gray sweatshirt, drawing up the sleeves. In a daze, I walked to the kitchen. There was an orange medicine bottle on the counter that I knew was not supposed to be there. I didn’t keep medicine here.

Then I remembered that Tim bugged my place shortly after I came back to the family. It was one of his stipulations. He had heard everything that she and I’d said. Little Brother’s always watching. It’s not like I minded...Even with the pinkie-swear he made with Gordon and how irritating it all was, he dropped by. And he had enough sense not to talk to me. Smart kid.

_Take two pills as needed for insomnia. Do not take with alcohol._

Yeah, okay. Sure. Two pills are going to make me blink, not help me sleep and forget about this rotten city for a while. I screwed off the cap and poured out four melatonin tablets. I glanced at my reflection in the microwave, at the darkness under my eyes and added a fifth. I smoked, anyhow, it’ll reduce the effectiveness.

I stared at the little white tablets in my hand. They’re just sleeping pills...they’ll help me sleep.

I sighed, putting them back into the bottle and forcing the cap back on. I rubbed my eyes. I wondered if she was anxious about meds as I was, about how cowardly it was to take medicine to avoid facing your nightmares...

“Jay?” I heard the calling from the engine bay, and didn’t answer until I’d put the bottle of sleeping pills in my pocket.

“The kitchen, Dick!” I yelled back, and in a few moments, the black-and-blue dork himself was in the doorframe of my kitchen.

“So where’s this girl-” Dick peeled off his mask and stopped mid-sentence once he saw the elephant in the room, “Whoah, what happened to the table?”

I hadn’t moved it since she’d left hours ago, gun parts and ammo all over the floor. My chest tightened as I glanced at the splintered wood and the glittering black metal. I said lowly, eyes glued to the counter, “I broke it.”

“Why?” He nudged my arm with his elbow, leaning over and resting his forearms on the counter. Must’ve been something on my face, because his expression saddened and concerned, “Jason. Did something happen?”

I’m an idiot, that’s what happened. I ran a hand through my disheveled hair, itching the back of my neck. I decided to tell him. He probably hasn’t had to deal with a big bad thing like this in his ledger. If he has, he hasn’t told me about it. But...he was my brother. Her name was like coughing up a razor blade on its way out of my mouth, “Abigail figured it out. She knows I was the Arkham Knight."

Dick’s eyebrows lifted, and he frowned. I asked him, my own voice sounding like it belonged to somebody else, “There’s a Wayne Foundation clinic for victims of the occupation. Why wasn’t I told about it?”

“I didn’t want you to fall into the kind of guilt you can’t shake off,” Dick’s voice softened, and there was a hand on my shoulder then. “I know you’re trying to make everything right. I didn't want to pile it on...I’m sorry, Jaybird."

“No, no. I understand...But you should have told me sooner,” I said, meeting his eyes.

He seemed skeptical. “Oh?”

I walked away from him, to my office next door. I snatched the calculator on my desk and typed the nine-digit number. He waited and when I threw it to him, he turned it over and read the display. His jaw dropped.

“I made a donation,” I shoved my hands into the pockets of my lounge pants, “That money was just  _sitting_ there after I sold the tanks. I wasn’t going to need it anytime soon...might as well put it towards something good.”

A strand of penance...or guilt was being wrung in my gut. “I know it doesn’t even begin to make up for what I did....throwing money at a problem usually doesn’t solve it, but...I wanted..." My voice shook, and I tried again, my back to him so he couldn't see my branded cheek twitch. "I wanted to let those people know that I'm trying to change. I'm protecting as many as I can from the scum..."

I turned to Dick, and the corner of his mouth curved upwards as I continued, "But that doesn't feed their families. That doesn't rebuild  _neighborhoods_ ...Money can do that if it’s done right...and if there's something somewhere that gets them relief...I'll be damned if I'm not the first guy to open my wallet. Even if I've only got pennies to give."

He looked at me hard for a while with that little smile on his face. Didn't like it.

"What?"

"I'm going to tell you something I should have told you when we were younger," Dick preambled, and I got antsy real quick. Big brother getting serious. But he flashed those blue eyes, and told me, a weird sincerity echoing off his words like bells, "I was a jackass back then. Fresh out of Bruce's shadow, thinking I was ready for the world and found myself dead wrong...When I heard Bruce took in some punk off the street, and he was gonna be the next Robin...I felt the closest thing to jealousy that I've ever been."

I couldn’t believe my ears. Did I even hear that right? Dick, jealous? Of  _me?_  I furrowed my eyebrows.

He raised his right hand. "I swear, I'm not kidding. I watched you...certain that you weren't cut out for it."

"I wasn't." I laughed, remembering how scrawny I was in that costume.

"Nope," He laughed with me, his eyes disappearing as he did, "But I kept watching...and you improved. Still a tiny little squirt of a kid, but jeez, how you loved to pick fights with guys bigger than you." I nodded, grinning. And he met my gaze, and I saw a bit of pride there..."But no matter how many times you got your ass handed to you, no matter what they did...you got back up. Because there was somebody you were fighting for...and  _that_ is when I knew that you were made for this line of work."

A stinging was coming on behind my eyes, but I reeled it back. Well  _shit_ , brother. I thanked him, at the very least, "That.. means a lot coming from you...You were the standard, Dick. I just had to reach it and I was doing it right."

"Point is, I'm proud of you," He declared, though that worried expression didn’t leave his face. "Are you alright, Jay?"

I opened my mouth quickly to say I was fine, but he spoke again, probably knowing me a little too well.

"I don't mean about the work either," Dick clarified, quiet. "I know that you wanted her to be safe. If you need me to, I can look out for her..."

"You're protecting two cities already, Dick."

"Or I can bring her here."

"For what, exactly?" I interrogated irritably, "What do you think will happen?" I straightened and threw on a phony smile. "'Hey sweet-cheeks, nice of ya to come back. Now that you've clearly gotten over my unfortunate totally-my-fault blunder in destroying people's lives, lemme buy you a drink.' It's not gonna work, Dick. She can't stand me!"

"Did you tell her why you did what you did?" He was starting to get annoyed now, he had that crease between his eyebrows and his jaw was set. Though it was more from a determination to get me to stop moping. I appreciated him trying, but at the time, I was refining it down to a science.

"Dick, I showed her my  _scars,_ " I confessed, pointing to the ones around my wrists and his eyes widened in surprise, "All of them...I told her everything. I just wanted her to understand, y'know?"

"And she still left?"

"It wasn't out of disgust or anything," I itched my neck. "She didn't really give me an explicit reason...but...I think she was scared. Not that I'd hurt her or that Falcone would kill her if she ran."

"What was she afraid of?" Dick searched my eyes, and he just listened to me. No judgment.

"She said she was more afraid of her own conscience than murderers," I looked at him, questions swirling in my head. "She knows now that we're onto her about her records, too. That more than anything else bothered her.”

“Think she’s got something to hide?”

“Dunno,” That was the question, now wasn’t it? “It’s either she did something bad and she doesn’t want anyone to know...or something happened to  _her_ , and it was so bad that she did everything she could so she would never, ever be reminded of it.”

After I said that, I did something I probably should’ve done the morning after I met her. I shrugged it all off like it wasn’t anything to spend time thinking about.  “I’m a big boy, Dick. I’m used to rejection.”

Dick started hotly, “Jason-”

Interrupting my train of thought was my personal cell phone blaring The Who. Since it was a bit early for "Pinball Wizard", I mashed the ringer off fast and saw Babs on the caller ID. I showed Dick the screen before answering it, tapping the speaker on.

"Sup, Barb-"

“ _Turn on your TV,”_ She urged, and Dick scrambled for the remote to the tiny little TV I mounted on my wall.

GNN came on with a sweeping shot of an island on fire and my eyes flew wide. There were huge billows of smoke, like a floating bonfire as the reporter said, “The popular haunted tourist attraction south of Mexico City went up in flames last night as a result of a bombing sweep by Santa Priscan gang members who work for the infamous supercriminal Bane.” They flashed a years-old picture of Bane in his prime. “This morning, a Mexican fisherman found this floating in the water.”

A single picture of a tanned, weatherbeaten hand holding a blood-stained luchador mask. I listened, slack-jawed as Barbara informed us, “ _I received an anonymous file an hour ago...saying that Bane had Harley Quinn with him. The file also had pictures of them sailing to the island with a timestamp of forty minutes before the whole place went up in flames…along with pictures of an unmarked helicopter leaving the island with a timestamp of ten minutes before the big boom.”_

“Who sent it?” I had a hunch. I muted the news feed.

“ _It wasn’t signed,”_ She paused with a sigh, “ _But there was a ‘Z’ at the bottom.”_

“Zorro,” Dick said suddenly.

“What?”

He explained, nostalgia coating his tone like molasses, "'The Mark of Zorro'. It was the movie he and his parents went to see before they died. I watched it with him every Christmas."

"Yeah, he watched it with me, too. Sounds like the old man,” I grumbled, but shook my head. Something wasn’t adding up. “Wait, so Bane’s dead?”

“ _Looks that way,”_ Barbara said, “ _Your tracker bullet went offline at about the time the island was bombed.”_

Dick and I exchanged a look. Silence hung in the air like wires. The big man from Santa Prisca...dead? Bane had been a constant threat to Gotham since before he or I became Robin...and he was the one guy to break Bruce’s confidence in his own invincibility, to one-up the Batman.

I pulled the last cigarette out from the pack on my desk, lighting it with the spare lighter I kept there. Here’s to you, Bane. I dragged a lungful from it, and smoke tumbled from my lips as I said:

“Good riddance.”

“If Harley left alone and Bane’s dead,” Dick deduced, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Then that means he kidnapped her for an exchange. He was going to get something in return...and his partner didn’t follow the plan. His partner wanted Harley, but didn’t want to give Bane what he asked for…”

“ _Still begs the question,”_ Barb chimed in, “ _Why Harley and what for?”_

“I’m thinking it still has something to do with the Joker,” Tapping off the ash into the tray on the windowsill, I added, “Either the partner was working with the Joker or the partner  _was_ the Joker. Either or...while I’ve got ya, did you get anything on that sample from the suicide victim?”

“ _I did,”_ She said brightly. There was a sound of nails on a touch screen, and she was probably bringing up notes. “ _I broke down the compound, and from what I’ve found, it’s a copycat substance. It has the properties and the effect of Joker toxin, but it’s not the same thing. Not by a long shot. And if there’s one thing we know about Joker…”_

“He’s consistent,” Dick finished, biting his lower lip.

I felt relief pooling in my chest. It's not Joker. Or at least, the evidence pointed that way. "Lucky break."

"Yeah," I heard from beside me and I knew his eyes were on the side of my face.

"Thanks for the heads-up, Barb. Keep us posted."

“ _Anytime, guys. Talk to you tonight."_

I ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the desk. I stuck my smoke between my teeth. Dick hadn't moved.

"You can stop lookin' at me like I'm breathing easier about it," I grouched, grabbing a pen and scratching out the last number on the notepad stuck to the wall. I wrote 'four' down. "I'm not."

"Becauuuuse?" Dick asked, expectant. “It’s not Joker. We don’t have to find him. If it’s a copycat, he’s doing it to prove a point and sooner or later, he’ll screw up and we’ll get him.”

He wouldn't understand. Tony Zucco died in prison. He doesn't know that kind of numbing fear that makes you take the pain from your worst nightmare...and the hatred that they leave behind. Hatred that clings to you for life...like a terminal disease.

"Did you ever think maybe I  _wanted_ it to be Joker? That I wanted to find him?" I pointed out smoothly, knocking the ash off into the tray again. I leaned against the wall, an arm crossed over my torso and the other lifting the smoke to my mouth for another slow drag.

"There's always the chance he did just change up his toxin," Dick offered, pushing his fingers through his inky black hair with an easy smile. "Babs could be wrong. He could be out there. You may still be able to kick his teeth in!”

"Thanks for the pick-me-up," I laughed darkly, smoke punctuating each burst. "You know any other day I’d procrastinate on sleep and just get to work, but right now...I'm exhausted. I've had a hell of a night."

Dick watched me as I stubbed out my cigarette. I bet I looked as tired as I felt to him. I knew I was rocking some serious dark circles...and he was over there bright-eyed and awake. I suppose that's where we're different; I couldn't help letting my fatigue show, but he had no trouble hiding his. He's been doing this longer than I have...sometimes I forgot that he was older than me.

“Alright, Jason. Sweet dreams.”

Dick caught me completely off-guard, then. He pulled me in for a brotherly hug. I had my arms out dumbly as he held me tight, like he'd been waiting a long time to do it. I couldn't remember the last time I've been hugged. I hesitated at first, but then I kinda remembered how to hug, patting his back. I felt warmth in my chest, and I closed my eyes for a moment. It was...nice to have a brother again. A real brother.

He let go, squeezing my shoulder as he passed me, heading towards the window. “See ya at sundown.”

“Hey, brother?” I said as I looked at the floor, halfway out the office room door. My cheek hurt and my ears were ringing. “Do me a favor?”

He had a foot braced against the windowsill, preparing to leave through it. “Yeah, sure. What do you need?”

I took the bottle of sleeping pills out of my pocket and threw them to him. I said over my shoulder on my way out of my office:

“Tell Tim that it’s going to take something a bit stronger than that to get me to sleep at night.”


	25. Daylight Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Abigail are independent people, capable of surviving apart just fine. She's a philosophy grad student. He's a vigilante who is scourging Gotham's underbelly like a vengeful angel.   
> Two people who have no business running into each other after what happened a few chapters ago, right?   
> ......right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When angels fall with broken wings
> 
> I can't give up, I can't give in
> 
> When all is lost and daylight ends
> 
> I'll carry you and we will live forever, forever"
> 
> Breaking Benjamin, “Angels Fall”

 

After I returned to the family, I made a list of people to kill.

These were people I should have killed them sooner, but my pride and revenge was apparently too good to give up for the sake of having someplace I belonged. These were evil people. The kind of people who would burn down elementary schools for kicks. They helped me become Arkham Knight, and part of my penance to this city...would be their deaths. The mandate, the mission...was whenever someone on my list crossed my path...I dropped everything and ended them,  _no matter what._

Tonight, I was in luck...someone on my list was working for Falcone. And I needed a word.

……………………..

The vents in my tactical hood were taking in the salty smell of Gotham Bay through the hole in the shattered window. The manager's office of the Falcone shipping yard in Old Gotham was drenched in moonlight now and light from the office lamp that stood by the filing cabinet. But I couldn't sightsee. I had a ten minute window before the guards downstairs would come check on this poor fool.

Marty Nash’s gray suit was already torn at the shoulders from where I'd grabbed him, and already bleeding from his forehead from where I'd smashed his hooked nose against his desk. He's nearly tripped over his chair as he backed up, eyes wide and his hands up. He demanded of me, his voice sounding like it was being strangled out of him,

"How about you drop the guns and we put a dollar amount on the information you want, huh?"

"How about no." I advanced on him in a second and nailed his forehead again with a headbutt, the manager falling to the ground in a heap. Guy's lucky that was all I did. "How about you tell me what I wanna know before I ruin this nice suit of yours with guts? Sound good? Great." I pressed the muzzle of my gun against his cheek, and held the ripped collar of his button-down with my other hand. "Where is Carmine Falcone?"

Nash’s eyes bulged and he struggled in my hands. I lifted him to his feet by his collar and pinned him to the wall of his office. My patience was thinning, so I decided to play with my prey. I dropped my voice low into that deadly place, "You better start talking, or I’m gonna demonstrate how you tear a guy’s spine in half and pierce his heart all at once.” I roared in his face, “ _Where is he?!_ ”

“I just run his businesses, freak!” He yelled, “He keeps me on a need-to-know.”

I hate it when they try to play coy with me. “Bullshit. You were the man who contracted with the Broker and Scarecrow to perfect fear toxin on behalf of the Don. You practically handed Crane Ace Chemicals on a silver platter. He would never do that if he didn’t trust you.” I enunciated each word, putting the fear of God in this clown. “Don’t. _Lie._ To. Me.”

“T-t-travelling,” The man squeaked, sweat running down his face.“He’s traveling. I don’t know where he is, ‘xactly.”

“Where did he go?” I reached to the back of my belt and pulled out a short throwing knife. His eyes found it and he was struggling even harder, my grip tightening on him. I quirked a grin. “Easy, hey-  _easy_ . Relax, pal. I’m not gonna stab you. This is for the note I’m leavin’.”

I dipped two fingers into my inner breast pocket for the folded note and stuck it to the wall. “See?”

“He…” He was having a hard time breathing, and I loosened my grip so he could get air in to talk. Wasn’t gonna be an asshole. “He asked me to send a package to Belle Reeve for the calendar psycho.”

“He’s bringing him to Gotham?” My stomach was twisting. One more thing to worry about.

“Looks like it,” Nash said, blood running into his eyebrows. “You and your friends are going to have a war on your hands...and I’ll be more than happy to watch.”

“You won’t be there,” My hand went to my belt again, and I quipped, “Remember when I said I wasn’t gonna stab ya?”

I drew a longer, serrated knife and saw the fear fill the place in his eyes where his arrogance fled. I grinned under the hood, and laughed.

“I lied...I’m gonna stab you. Just wasn’t gonna stab you with  _that knife.”_

……………………………………………………………………………

“Boss? Boss, are you in there?” The bigger thug asked merely three minutes later, knocking on the door and exchanging a look with his friend next to him. He had a bad feeling about this; Mr. Nash was always talkative when they came up to check on him.

They held their semi-automatics at the ready and the first thug kicked open the door, breaking the hinges. But upon seeing inside, the smaller guy was holding bile back in his throat.

Marty Nash was sitting in a pool of blood that had waterfalled down his chest from a knife that protruded from the center. His mouth was slack-jawed and his eyes glassy. There was a thin cut over his right eyebrow, and a gash over his nose where it appeared like it was bashed in. One of the men noticed the note stuck to the wall with a throwing knife, and stepped around the blood, fighting intense nausea. When he couldn’t get it free from the wall, the built thug lended a hand and with a few yanks using both of his arms, the note fluttered in the blood. The paper stained the little guy’s hand when he picked it up, but the letters were dark enough to read through the blood.

**Don’t get comfortable. This was fun at first, but playtime’s over. Every week that Carmine Falcone continues to walk the earth, I torch a business with his last name in the title. None of the employees will be harmed, but the money in your wallets will be. And I know that’s all you really care about. Hard to get weapons when there’s nothing in your pockets, isn’t it?**

**Things are going to change real quick. This city will be free of your corruption, and I’ll be the one who does it.**

**One more thing, dickbag: if you hurt ANYONE trying to get to me, I’m coming for you.**

…………………………………………………………………………….

**MEANWHILE - GRAND AVENUE**

Abigail Byron remembered how Pauli’s Diner ran before the first Scarecrow attack months ago. There was never more than a couple of empty seats, and people from all walks of life would come in to share a meal, talk and reminisce. It was a favorite meeting place of cops coming off the night shift, stopping by to get a stack of pancakes that the diner was somewhat famous for.

The place had been rebuilt out of pocket by the owner, Pauli Moore. Abigail didn’t know him well, but from the few words she had exchanged with the man, he was proud and he knew how important it was to Gothamites to have a place like Pauli’s. A place where service came with a smile. And no matter how bad the attack was, people came back. They understood that this was something that wasn’t their fault. Sure, she thought, there was the occasional loud kid who cried and screamed no matter what the parents did, and the scrappy guy at the bar who never had enough for his tab. But a constant was Pauli and his woman Julia, the blonde lady behind the bar.

“Burning the midnight oil?” Pauli’s gravelly voice with a thick Jersey accent made her look away from the window, and she smiled at him as he refilled her coffee for the fourth time. His eyes scanned the several papers she had splayed out like playing cards before her. “Gotham U?”

“Graduate programs, yeah,” She replied, placing her hand around her cup and letting the warmth heat her cold fingers. “Nearly finished editing my thesis.”

“Good on you, kid. Stayin’ in school and all,” Pauli said, leaning with a tattooed elbow on the back of the seat across from her. “Need some brighter heads in this place…” He glanced back at the TV over the bar, where the attack on Santa Prisca was still being covered by GNN. “Since Batman died and the new guy took over...Red somethin’ or other...I don’t know if he’s even a good guy.”

_He is,_ Abigail almost said, like a reflex...she didn’t know why she didn’t. Her heart sank, her thumb tracing the curve of the cup’s handle like it was the ‘J’ on the Red Hood’s cheek. It was as warm...He was a hero to many, yes...but he had done so much wrong, too. But he was not a good guy the way you’d talk about Superman…

He was a killer who’d talked a young boy out of suicide. A tactician that knew how to let go of the rules. A young man who had spent most of his life inflicting harm, yet when his deepest secrets were strung up like Christmas lights was more concerned with the interrogator’s breathing. A scarred soldier that touched like he wouldn’t get another chance to save someone. A boy...calling out for his father in his sleep after he was hurt.

But she sipped her coffee, her gaze pensive as she stared into the black liquid in her cup. She saw a darkened version of her reflection, tinted red by the neon sign outside her window.  _Black and red, is that all this city is? Ash and blood and lead and nightmares._

She frowned, resting the cup on the saucer again. Letting out a sigh, she gathered her papers into a single stack. Abigail fished out her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans. “I think that’ll be it for me tonight.”

Pauli turned around, but once he saw the twenty she was holding out for him, he waved a hand. “On the house, darlin’. Promise me something?”

Abigail’s eyebrows came together in confusion, but she nodded anyway, slowly returning her money in her wallet. She slid out of the booth, throwing a clip on the stack of papers and pushing them into her tote bag, shielding Pauli’s view from the gun that was also tucked in there. When she looked to him, he spoke in a voice like the one her mother used when she made Abigail promise never to become a cop.

“When you become somebody, girl,” Pauli shook his head, grinning. “Remember the good people left in Gotham. And anybody who says otherwise, give ‘em hell.”

Abigail beamed at him, determination straightening her spine and standing her taller. “I will.” She moved past him, saying over her shoulder, “Take care, Pauli.”

………….

Her walk to the parking garage where she parked her Subaru was relatively uneventful. Granted, she kept a hand on her gun and watched the shadows for any kind of movement, checking frequently behind her. But that was standard in Gotham for any smart woman.

She flipped through the keys for her private study room at Gotham U, her apartment keys...looking for her car keys. “C’mon, c’mon...where are you?”

She had the door unlocked in a moment, but she did not get into her car.

Two arms came around her shoulders, a gasp escaping her lips, and the arms were crushing her to a hard chest. She felt something sharp press against her knife and a hand clamp over her mouth. Her scream was cut off in her lips, her body shoved against the hood of her car. She tried to jerk her head backwards in hopes of connecting with a chin or a nose, maybe. But the man holding her was much stronger than her, and larger.

But she managed to get her teeth around his fingers and bit down hard, the man behind her giving a howl. She gathered all the air she could into her asthmatic lungs and screamed as loud as she possibly could, her abs tightening with the effort, her eyes squeezing shut- a sharp crack rattled her as a bloody fist collided with her cheekbone, silencing her with a pained whine. The knife came against her skin harder and Abigail felt a bit of wetness slick to her throat. A rough ‘shut it!’ was said into her ear, and his hands snaked down her shoulders, over her chest that began to hyperventilate with terror-

“ _Get away from her, now!”_

Abigail’s heart made a wild leap as she heard the roar from her left, pounding footsteps and a gun being cocked. The next second, the man at her back was gone and so was the knife. She gasped, clawing at her neck and seeing the red streaks on her fingers, she applied pressure to the cut under her jaw and spun around to see where her assailant was. She had her gun in her hand now.

Her guess had been right; the Red Hood was grappling with the man in the black ski mask, who must have been twice his size. She was desperately trying to get her breath back, to steady the hand on her gun, to get the four men her vision blurred to turn back into just two.

When her vision cleared, Red Hood had both hands behind the man's head and powered it into his armored knee with a shout. Abigail saw the rage now, she saw every nerve that made him like she did in that elevator days ago. The man who'd attacked her was quite obviously beaten and wanting to flee, but Hood put him on his feet. Only to knock him down once more. A punch to the cheek, a steel - toed kick to the gut, a gun handle drilled into the skull again and again like a heartbeat.

Her gun fell out of her hand as she almost toppled over, her side hitting the metal of her car and she leant against it for support, nausea and shock clouding her head and dizzying her.

But it was the loud  _bang_  of a gunshot that startled her to her senses with a wheeze and her fingers scrambled to open her car door. She crawled into the back of her Subaru, hurriedly shutting the door behind her and covering her ears against the repeated gunfire. She knew the doors were unlocked, but she didn't care. Her lungs labored to receive a steady breath, and she was hearing much more than the handguns of a man who had just saved her life for a second time. She was hearing her mother, crying and holding a small child. She was hearing her mother, telling her to hide and cover her ears. Do not listen, but watch if you must. Watch. And do nothing. Be quiet. Or you will be found.

Abigail had not cried like this in some time. Not under stress like this again. Abigail Byron was not Abigail Byron now. She was who she was before she became the philosophy major who saved the Red Hood.

She climbed over the seats to get behind the wheel. She glanced over to see if J- if he was alright, and she saw him standing ten feet away from her window. She didn't dare look at the man who lay dead at his feet.

He was standing sideways, the gray leather on his forearms coated in blood and his hood down, his tactical mask shining in the garage light. His shoulders shook with his own haggard breathing, and Abigail wondered detachedly if he scared himself with what came so easy for him. With killing. He faced her completely, like he awaited judgment at her hands. His hands clenched and unclenched, and slowly, one came up to tap the back of his mask. The front lift away from his face and she saw Jason. He had beautiful ice-blue eyes, tufts of sweat-drenched black hair in his face...and the brand stood out bright white against his flushed skin.

The two held this gaze for a long time. Then, as if involuntarily he stepped closer and she jumped so bad, her hip banged the crank for the window. A look of pain flashed across his face, and he mouthed “I’m sorry”. He bit his lip as she started the car with fumbling fingers and tears glittering on her face, drove away.

He watched as her car disappeared around the corner, before he sucked in a breath and roared in frustration and pain, his voice echoing off the walls.


	26. Here I Am, Where Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara Gordon is the backbone of the BatFamily now that Alfred's MIA. Whether it's dealing with her mixed feelings for Tim, her longing for Dick, or the promise she made to Jason to help him recover, her nights are never dull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I've cried enough tears to fill up an ocean,
> 
> Surely you see that my world's been broken?
> 
> Here I am, where are you?
> 
> Help me please, pull me through.
> 
> Here I am, where are you?
> 
> All my days are edged in blue.”
> 
> Rory Gallagher, “Edged in Blue”

**MEANWHILE - ORACLE'S CLOCK TOWER**

" _Aren't you going to say anything_?"

Tim's voice registered in Barbara's ears as if he were much more distant than Chinatown. Her fingers were limp against her keyboard, and the air in her lungs came and left in shallow spurts. Like Tim himself when he visited. Barely through the door long enough to say 'hello' and gone before she could say 'goodbye'. It was clear he was avoiding her, the question was why.

Barbara paid very close attention to the position of her fingers on her keyboard at times like these. Almost immediately from the moment she became Oracle, she was one with this instrument, this computer that held every piece of information needed to protect Gotham. Her left hand was splayed over the keys, the other on the number pad, and her eyes widened when she saw her ring finger was right between the 'D' and the 'T'.

She took a deep breath but quietly so it wouldn't pick up on the comm link. "I'm going to peg that statement as temporary insanity and move on."

" _Barb, I mean it."_

"Tim," She removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I had a good time last Friday, but...I don't think it's a good idea to go beyond."

" _Because we agreed to put the mission first,"_ He sounded angry almost, and the whooshing coming through the comm...he was diving off a building. " _I'm not sure I can do it anymore...and stay sane."_

"You'll have to," She said, a bit harshly to her own ears. "We don't have time to do this right now, you know that."

" _Exactly. We don't have a lot of time."_

Barbara sighed, and countered, "Alright. I'll humor you. What exactly makes you believe that now, in the middle of a grudge war and a copycat serial killer case, is the best time to pick that topic back up?"

_"Because we might not get the chance to later..."_

Her chest tightened at how his voice sounded, like he was talking about something that died long ago. She tried to reassure him, "Tim, we can't...not yet."

There was a pounding sound and his breath, he was running. " _Barbara, I don't want for some criminal to get lucky and do away with me tomorrow, without me telling you that I l-"_

"-Don't you say something you'll regret," The words came out much faster than she could stop them, and much harsher than she'd ever meant.

Tim half-shouted back just as harshly, the running coming to a stop, "I haven't ever regretted it. Not one day, not one moment I looked at you but couldn't touch you." He gave a low noise of annoyance in his throat. "Tell me you can feel that, Barb."

"Tim, I..." Hot stinging attacked right behind her eyes. She had feelings she could not explain for him; she would never deny that. But to call it something so ethereal and all-encompassing as love...

Interrupting her thoughts was a message notification on her system, which cut out the word that she was terrified to hear. She said quickly, her fingers trembling, "Hold on a sec."

She swiped away the Calendar Man entry and brought up the message, leaning forward in her seat and her heart pounding. It was from Dick. She nearly smiled, and she opened it automatically.

**U think u and Tim can hold down the fort for 2nite? Got a date, hope it goes well!**

Her lungs deflated. He must be excited, she thought, and busy. He never abbreviated like that. It made her cringe, somewhat, to see it. Hesitantly, she replied to him.

**Sure, we got it. Enjoy yourself.**

She stared at the message a few minutes, considering whether or not to wish him luck or to tell her later how it went. But she told herself she didn't care. Why do that to herself? It wasn't like he knew what she was thinking, or felt. She left it as is, and hit send.

" _Everything okay?"_

Barbara jumped, almost forgetting Tim was still linked with her comms. She blew a lock of copper hair out of her face. "Peachy."

She changed the subject, to somewhat neutral ground. Though what she decided to discuss called into question her definition of 'neutral'. "Heard from Jay yet?"

 _"Nope."_ His response was a little too quick, and she narrowed her eyes.

She checked the time. Jason was late for his usual check-in. Which was fine. He would send her a message when he could. But then something itched at her insides, telling her she needed to hear from him. The same feeling she'd had the night he disappeared after Joker, before she even knew what happened.

"Let's call him." She held in the 'J' key on her board and in a few seconds, she had a dial tone through the speakers.

She connected Tim to the call, and after a few beeps it went right to voicemail.

_"Can't come to the phone right now. Probably doing Robin's job. Leave a message to be ignored at the tone."_

She shook her head, smirking as she ended the call. She heard Tim scowl through her speakers. Jason never answered the first time. She waited five seconds and redialed. Timing was everything.

He answered his comms after the third ring, along with the oh-so-charming greeting of, "What?"

Barbara frowned at the signal tracker, narrowing her eyes on his position. "What're you doing in Otisburg? Thought you were checking the shipping yard tonight."

" _That's done_ ," Jason sounded defensive, angry. " _Started patrol, heard a scream, came to the rescue. That a problem_?"

" _Relax, Jason,"_ Tim cautioned over the link, but she wished he hadn't. " _I know you're dealing with Ab-_ "

Jason's voice cut through like a hot knife, " _Say another word about her, replacement. Say another word and see what happens."_

 _"_ Jay..." Barb hadn't known. She knew Tim kept tabs on Jason for contingency purposes, but...she never knew to what extent. "What happened?"

The communications clicked off. Barb bit her lip.

 _"He hung up on us,"_ Tim lamented.

The display to her left popped up a notification, and it signalled someone was on the roof, about to use the skylight entrance. There was a small feed in the upper left that showed Jason's hunched shoulders and clenched fists walking up the side.

"He's here. I'll talk to him."

" _Good luck."_

Barbara tapped the button to open up the entrance and watched as he saw the panel slide aside, jumping into it without a thought.

………………

Her name was still on my tongue when my boots hit the ground, my body recoiling into a crouch and as I straightened, I heard Barbara push herself away from the keyboard and roll over to me. My breathing hadn’t steadied fully yet, hitching in my throat on the exhales. But my eyes remained on my hands, where the blood had dried and the material was was split at the seams in places.

“Jason, my God,” Her eyes widened in shock as she eyed me all over, her hands reaching out to grab mine at the wrists. I spread my aching fingers, "Why are you covered in blood?”

“When  _aren’t_ I covered in blood?” I asked, trying to be snarky and  _me_ , but the words left me all wrong. And Barb knew it.

"Tim was talking about Abigail before, wasn't he?" She tightened her grip on me. "And take the helmet off."

I pulled my hands out of her grasp, flicking my hood off with a jerk of my head and removed my tactical mask. I stayed as steely as I could, but Barbara always had this uncanny way to see right through my shit. She caught my eye and she knew what this was about.

"Jay, come with me."

Within minutes, she had me out of the bloody jacket, the gloves that had split open at the nails where I’d ripped right through them, leaving just a white tank top and my armored pants and boots. I was sitting backwards on a wooden chair with my hair a matted mess and my forearms resting on the back. In stripping my upper body, Barb and I discovered a deep-ish gash over the top of my shoulder where the man had sliced at me. In the high of anger, I'd almost forgotten it. It had felt like a kitten scratch in the moment, but now that I was only starting to cool it...yeah, might I say - fucking  _ow._

I gritted my teeth as Barbara pressed a peroxide - soaked cloth against the wound. "Marty Nash was Falcone's right hand man when it came to business, you were right."

"Did you get anything from him?" She pushed her glasses on top of her head as she worked in close, playing at the skin to see if she missed a spot.

"Falcone sent a package to Belle Reeve," I leveled my gaze with her, watching her expression harden as I said, "He's bringing Calendar Man to Gotham."

She slowly took in a breath, and then moved a hand over to the keyboard, typing a message with that one hand to Tim and Dick.  _Calendar Man in Gotham, find Gordon._ She hit send with her thumb and turned back to me; she stared at me with a question in her eyes.

“I was on my way here when I went through Grand Avenue and heard a scream,” I closed my eyes, hearing it again in my ears and my jaw set hard.

“Barb, ‘bloody murder’ doesn’t come close. And I knew it was her. I just  _knew,_ and then I was running. I found them in a parking garage...a man was holding a knife to her throat and  _with his hands_   _on her_.” I snarled the last words, and my blood boiled, my hands clenching tight. “I got him off her, and…”

I opened my hands, saw the lines of brownish-red under my nails. Barbara followed my eyes, and stated like she was declaring a simple but unfortunate fact. “You killed him.”

Mutely, I nodded. She sighed, grabbing a sterilized needle from the packet and deftly threading it, knotting the ends. There was a barely noticeable prick as she stitched, and I felt nauseous, but it had nothing to do with that. She let me think while she worked. When I killed criminals, it always felt...justified. Like I was right and it was down to me to execute justice. It was cold, and right. Correct. I was more than happy to do it.

I looked at her sideways as she concentrated on mending me. Red hair braided down her back, purple - rimmed glasses on the top of her head and those sky blue eyes that I've seen flicker with rage and hate in the heat of battle. I still saw it from time to time, and I wondered if she thought her legs were just a great setback in the roller coaster of life...the one that forced her to pursue a better Gotham in a new way...or a restraint to keep her from eventually doing work like mine.

I've killed for Barbara. One of my militia was interrogating her in front of me on Halloween...and he hit her. It was the last thing he ever did. But as I did it, I felt fear. Fear of losing Batgirl, losing my friend. The one person who got me best.

Oracle was the closest thing I had to a best friend or a sister. Part of me believed that if I hadn't died, the greatest setback of my life...I would have loved her.

"Answer me something," Her voice broke me out of my thoughts, and she was gentle in how she asked her question, "Why am I always the last person to learn what's going on with you?"

Something icy slipped into my gut as I told the truth. "Because you've got bigger things to worry about than my problems."

"Don't you give me that," She said shortly, finishing the stitch. "Jay...I know we can’t really change the past," Barb locked eyes with me as she unscrewed the jar of glue to cover the line with. "I swore to myself after you left my room in that compound...that I’d do everything I could to be here for you. That we could do it together.”

“To help me...Barb,” I demanded of her, insistent, "What have I ever done to help you, huh? To keep you  _safe?_ ”

"I wasn't there for you when you were paralyzed. You know who told me, Barb? Give you one guess." I pointed a finger at my burning brand, and her face paled. "He came to that wing of Arkham one day giggling to himself as he developed photos on the floor in front of me...he asked me if I'd heard the good news. When I didn't answer him, he kicked in a rib and asked again. I said I didn't. He told me that Batgirl was in the hospital..." I cleared my thick throat and said weakly, "If he was lying, I told him I'd cut his head off and put it on a stick...but he just laughed, and said he had a feeling I'd say that. He had proof, and when the pictures developed, he hung them in front of me for a week."

She leaned back in her wheelchair and covered her mouth with her hand. I grabbed both of her hands between mine, holding them like a broken bird. "Barbara, I have done nothing but make life hard for you. I'm the last person you should waste your time helping. There is no helping me.”

After those words, her face deadpanned and she glared at me. “I could have said the same thing when it happened, you know. I could have shriveled up into a little ball and been miserable… Listen to me for a second.”

“Jason, happiness is an inside job.” She squeezed my hands, and she had my attention. “Never assign anyone else that much power over your life. You and me, we’ve got a calling to save people. We cannot escape that. We were _made_ to save people. Save Gotham. People rely on us.” Those blue eyes were seeing right through me. “I rely on you, not just for the mission either. I rely on the boy I knew.” She let go of my hand and pressed one of hers against my chest. “He is still in here. I can feel him...he’s grown up and hardened with life, but he’s still the same boy. How can you tell me not to help you?”

I don’t know why that did it. But something wet slipped out between my eyelashes when I blinked at her. She used the hand on my heart to pull me towards her, wrapping her arms around me. With numb, awkward limbs, I hugged her to me just as tight and kissed the top of her shoulder.

I stared into the shadows behind her. In a weird delirium, I imagined the Arkham Knight to my left... Metal ears and menacing anonymity with his arms crossed. Ready to kill. He shook his head in disgust. On the right...a shorter, braver boy than me with the ‘R’ on his chest and a brandless face. Before it happened. Ready to sacrifice. He...was smiling a smile I’ve forgotten how to do. Genuine, warm...whole.

And behind them both...the white grin in the dark, holding a knife to both of their throats.

I blinked again, and they were all gone. It was just me with Oracle. It was just me, and I could keep it that way…

... if I fought for it.


	27. Hitman on the Loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting with Barbara has opened Jason's eyes, and now he knows that there are a few things he has to take care of before he can begin his campaign in the war against Falcone. And there's only one man who might help the Red Hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You know I love it when you say you're afraid
> 
> But you hate it when I'm making you shake
> 
> Hang the truth from a noose
> 
> Put a hitman on the loose
> 
> Now you're countin' on him making your day”
> 
> Shinedown, “It All Adds Up”

 

Barbara Gordon is a saint. We clear on that? Good. She may steal fries right off your plate when you're not looking, have a hard time smiling, be more willing to ride her wheelchair into a brawl than I'd like and she can't decide what she wants half the time. But she's a goddamn saint. Anyone who says otherwise, fight me.

If anyone was gonna get anything through my thick skull at that point, it was her. She made me realize two things.

The first was that the biggest and hardest obstacle I was facing was right beneath my skin. It wasn't Falcone or the Joker copycat. It was me, or rather, the ghosts of who I used to be. Arkham Knight's anger, Robin's naivety...If I wanted to be remade into something that was expressly mine, not Bruce's or Joker's, I had to let most of it go. Important parts, I would keep: my brothers, Barbara, Gordon (he's a schmuck, but he's the family's schmuck), Alfred ( _God_ , I miss him), Bruce to a fault...My happy, committed and long-term relationship with The Missus. You get the picture.

The second was exactly what it was I'd seen in Abigail's eyes that night I saved her. My suspected anxiety attack that killed the guy who held the knife to her neck had me believing that she was afraid of me. She was alone. She saw me, and felt alone. She was scared, yeah...but I don't think it had to do with me. She had watched me beat that guy to death with a gun in her hand, no fear for her life. Only fear for mine. But it was the sound of my gun that startled her into her car.  _It wasn't me that scared her._

Burning bridges always seemed to be my unintentional specialty. Tim, Gordon, Scarecrow, Bruce, Abigail. But after the damage was done, I never tried to mend them. I made exceptions, sure, like Barbara, but I never tried with anyone I didn't think deserved it...or anyone I wouldn't mind losing.

But I was in the mood to make changes to that policy.

...........................

The air was thicker here, the waters splashing up against concrete four feet to my left. The middle of May made everything warm in Gotham exactly where it shouldn't. I waited at the pier for a full hour after I dropped the address off at Barbara's with the instructions. I leaned against the massive storage container with my mask lifted away from my face, smoking menthol cigarettes and thinking about all the ways this could go wrong. And not just wrong. Hilariously wrong. Maybe it wasn't a good idea. Maybe he was the wrong person to ask this. But he was the one guy at GCPD that wasn't a total asshat. The one guy like me.

I saw light creep along the ground on the other side of the storage container. I flicked my smoke out of my fingers and stubbed it out with my heavy boot. I brought my mask back down and threw my hood up before I stepped around the container. I recognized his ancient-looking 70s Ford and the fedora as he got out. He kept his headlights on.

“I appreciate you meeting me,” I said, as he slowly walked closer.

Harvey Bullock rubbed the stubble on his chin and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to go ahead and guess that this isn’t about Falcone.”

“Nope,” I rubbed a hand at the back of my neck. “I'm gonna be straight up with you: originally, I had no intention of forking over Falcone alive.” He didn't seem surprised. “But I need a favor, a big one…”

“And you didn't know what else you could offer?” He was skeptical, and the lines around his eyes deepened as he said, “What exactly are we talkin’ about here? I'm old. Not much use to anybody anymore.”

I frowned; I'd heard about him busting a bunch of Penguin’s guys last week for carting drugs around Gotham. Hardly sitting on his thumbs. I didn't comment on it. “I need someone looked after.”

“Why not go to Gordon?” His eyes were olive colored, full of questions.

“Between Barbara, the department, possibly running for mayor and me, he's got his hands full. And I've got work to do,” I crossed my arms. “I'm asking  _you_ , detective. I'll throw in some cash if that'll make your decision easier.”

“Keep your money, kid,” He waved me off, but he was uneasy, I could tell. His eyes went to the ground as he asked, “Who is it, exactly?”

“Abigail Byron,” My chest wrung at the name but I ignored it, “She said you and Gordon used to drive her home from school when she was little. Her mom was a cop…?”

Bullock’s eyes lightened with recognition, and his shoulders tensed. I could have sworn he sounded worried, his eyebrows lifting and his jaw tightening. “Don't tell me that Falcone's screwing with her…”

“It looks that way... pulled a guy off her earlier tonight who tried to kill her...or worse,” My voice shifted into a darker place, trying to get her scream out of my ears. “He might have raped her if I hadn't been in the neighborhood.”

The old detective was very still then, and after a moment, he asked me, “What did you do?”

I should have grabbed my grapple gun in case what I was about to tell him would make him try to arrest me. But something about his posture had me thinking otherwise. “I killed him.”

He relaxed subtly, and said in a low voice, “Good...Squirt’s a good kid.” I tried not to laugh at Bullock calling her Squirt, but the edge in his tone next snapped me back, “How do  _you_  know her? You sweet on her?”

“Saved my life once and Falcone knows it,” I shrugged, playing it all off like it was nothing between her and me, “I don't want her stuck in the crossfire. He’ll use her to get to me. She's good for this city…”

“...Just like her mom,” Bullock said quietly.

There was something - I couldn’t put my finger on what - behind his eyes. Something old, something he’s worked to forget. I knew how that sits in a heart; I knew how to recognize it. He wasn't sold yet, but I decided to play on what I was seeing.

“She told me that her mom was one of the better ones,” I leaned against the storage container as the clouds crept across the sky with the breeze coming in from the bay.

“The best,” He corrected, a weird reverence in his voice. “She loved that girl with everything she had...She was my partner after her old one was killed and Jim became Commissioner…I remember one night, we were between Two-Face and a hard place,” He paused to look me dead in the face, shook his head, “We weren’t winning. She threw a fire extinguisher and shot it, thing blew up right in his face. While he freaked, she ran and punched the tar out of him. When she had him cuffed, I knew that she would walk barefoot into hell to go home to that little girl.”

...I knew me having kids would be the most irresponsible, idiotic thing I would ever do. But I could understand that. I've seen it in Alfred’s eyes more than once when the old man or I'd come home with injuries.

I had him thinking about her mom now. Time to reel in the fish. “You can still do some good here, man. For the cop you knew. Don't make her fighting be for nothing. Gail doesn't deserve to die for this.”

“‘Gail?’ And you say you're not sweet on her,” Bullock joked, a corner of his mouth turned up.

My face felt hot, I unhitched from the wall and I opened my mouth to retort or something. He held up a hand, said, “Relax, Hood. I'll do it...For her, her mom.” He narrowed his gaze. “And you'll keep your end?”

“Bringing Falcone in alive? Yeah.”

He shook his head like he didn't get it. “I've seen you around, kid. You're not like his others. When Gordon told me what you agreed to, I didn't think you'd do what you said. Not for a second. You kill crooks. Which I understand. I might even agree with you if you didn't do it so brutally. You took Falcone’s  _eye_ out. I'm not complaining; I've got no love for the guy. But...” He straightened his hat. “If I may, what do you care?”

 

My throat tightened, but I steeled myself hard when I answered him after a moment. “I'm  _sick_ of the lies is all. Nothing against you, man, but the system’s been broke for a long time. It does not work. Batman was no better. Put a guy in the hospital, let him endure a bit’a discomfort and pain. Works on most guys and I suppose it did the job way back in the day..But they just don't make psychos the way they used to.” I sighed, the vents in my mask distorting the sound. I didn't know if the words tasted sour or if it was the salty air in the harbor.“They're not afraid of the law or Batman. I want to give them and reason to be  _scared stiff_ for their lives...And that's because I'm willing to take them. And I'm good at it. That's all there is to it.”

“I...I see.”

He stared at me, and slowly nodded. Resigned. Old. Bullock was a good cop, but I knew he wasn't always that way. Maybe it was that part of him that was willing to work with me. “Is this the part where I turn around and you disappear into thin air?”

“Not really,” I said, biting my lower lip and knocking my knuckles on the container behind me. “Gonna climb this and then grapple to that donut shop a few blocks over. M’ starvin’.”

“Okay, I hear you,” Bullock smirked, his stubble bunching in one corner as he looked down. His hat covered his eyes. He started towards his Ford Fairlane, his trench coat swaying.

I had climbed on top of the container when I heard his voice again.

“Hey Hood!”

I called back, seeing him with one foot in his car and his hand braced on the door. “Yeah?”

“Try the Angels. Strawberry creme with glaze. They're God's gift to Gotham.”

…………..

There's nothing like summer in the city. It made everything hot and alive, ready to thrive and connive. I far, far preferred the heat to the cold. And the breeze in Gotham at this time of year was damned refreshing for what I was about to do. The smash and grab was easy enough for the Falcone law firm in Old Gotham, across town from my firehouse. Three story building. Simple. All too simple.

I picked this business first because it was the front line of defense for the Falcone family when it came to legal issues. In many ways, this law firm was what kept the family out of jail. Not for long.

I broke in, planted the explosives on each floor in alternating spots on the floor plan and twenty minutes later, I was out.

I grappled to the top of a water tank on a building maybe three blocks out. The firm was still in view when I sat with my legs dangling over the side. I glared around, then brought my hood down and tapped my mask to lift itself from my face. I pulled the plastic bag closer to me, taking out my phone and opening up the donut box.

I scrolled through songs until I came to the one I’d had in mind for the occasion. I fought a grin as I put the music on and balanced the phone on my knee.

“ _When you were young and your heart was an open book,”_ I sang along with McCartney, “ _You used to say live and let live.”_

My hands went in different directions then, to the donut box and to my pocket. When I retrieved them, there was a donut in one hand and an explosive detonator in the other. Fuel and work.

“ _But in this ever-changing world in which we’re living…”_

I braced my thumb over the detonator’s button, musing to myself that if I got anything from the old man - it’s his theatrics. I kept with the song, “ _...makes you give in and cry…”_

“ _Say live and let die.”_

I mashed it, and there was a muted  _boom_  at first, then the building’s windows blasted out in great plumes of fire and debris, glass went flying everywhere from what I could see at this distance. Some of the brick around the windows flew loose as well, tumbling from the upper levels of the building and crashing down onto the streets below. I whistled lowly, listening to McCartney and watching the flames lick the building black.

I bit into the donut, the strawberry creme and the glaze...oh my  _God._ I licked the red-pink creme from my thumb and hummed a bit. “Damn, dude was right.”

I enjoyed the rest of it, just sitting there for a number of minutes. Something hit me maybe four minutes into it that made me laugh. Remember that Roman emperor that was supposed to have fiddled while Rome burned?

Yeah. Nero doesn’t have shit on me.


	28. Reasons To Be Missed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason Todd is a man with many heavy psychological chains that follow him throughout his life, and unfortunately, that doesn't leave him with a lot of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When my time comes  
> Forget the wrong that I've done  
> Help me leave behind some  
> Reasons to be missed  
> And don't resent me  
> And when you're feeling empty  
> Keep me in your memory  
> Leave out all the rest”
> 
> -Linkin Park, “Leave Out All the Rest”

 

**TWO WEEKS LATER**

It's not the same every time, waking up from a nightmare. Sometimes, it's a scream. Other times like tonight, I woke with a wet and aching face, gasping as if I just couldn't get enough air. I lay there for a second, balling handfuls of my pillow into fists and gritting my teeth as my body protested at how long I rotted in that abandoned wing.

My bones told me just how lucky I was to get out of there, to be alive. It'd be great if I believed it. But if I did that, I’d have to believe that the only pieces of me - and they were pieces - that had been broken were just bones and skin.

I stared at my callused hands as I lost it into my pillow, more gasps and grunts and hisses between my teeth. I felt like someone was reaping me hollow, like back then. I shut my eyes tight, tears of shame squeezing onto the already wet fabric that was cold against the brand on my cheek. I crumpled, clenching my hands hard until it hurt. Everything hurt. C’mon, Jason. You  _knew_ pain, and this wasn't the real deal.

Real pain came from somewhere you thought was safe at first. Somewhere you trusted. And it clung to you like a disease or a parasite. I've found that hate and anger work just the same way. Pain and hate and anger.

I sat up, pushing my palms into my eyes to stop the crying. My feet touch the floor, and as my hands came down, I saw the moonlight from the cracked window on my toes. I wiped my inky hair off my sweaty forehead, and groggily gazed through the empty section in the glass. My vision was blurry, but I could see the ‘W’ of Wayne Tower. I had to look away, the nightmare images loud and immovable in my mind. Most people forgot their nightmares within the first thirty seconds. For my kind of terror, it takes me thirty minutes. One image my mind latched into, and submerged me in the memory like dunking someone's head underwater without warning.

_“Miss me, sport?” I heard the tapping noise behind me as he clicked the whip around his feet. My barbed-wire ruined arms were chained to either side to the ceiling, and my boots were just barely touching the ground._

_“I thought I’d stop by, it is Christmas after all!” He said, giving a laugh before the first lash cut open the skin on my shoulder blade and I belted a shout that razed my throat dry. “I was just watching ‘A Christmas Carol’, great stuff. I personally love Tiny Tim. Good kid, sorry luck. You remind me of him, you know that…?”_

_He uttered another sickening laugh and whipped me again, the flesh on my shoulder splitting and I grunted through my teeth. Every breath made me wish I couldn't breathe, or didn't need to. But I begged for death with each pant, and each heartbeat tolled sadly like church bells in my ears. Another lash on my lower back that my spine arched as the shout left my chest. My arms spread wide...That made me think of the choir. I used to sit outside the window while they sang on Sundays, and I let out a low whine. I was thinking that I'd never hear their Christmas songs again._

_“Oh, if only someone could help the poor, crippled... unfortunate boy?”_

The panic constricted my chest like a vice. I got up from my bed and stumbled into the small bathroom, bending over to splash icy water in my face. I glared into the mirror and as if by torturous magnetism, locked onto the ‘J’. I forced myself to look at my face, shining stains beneath my eyes. My crooked nose, my chin, my ear, and finally, my blue eyes.

“It's okay,” I whispered, leaning over a bit. “It's fine. You're real, you're here. It's okay. You're okay. This,” I pressed a hand to my chest, coughed miserably. “This is real. You're awake.”

It didn’t work, my lungs were still heaving to get all the air it could. I heard his laughing, ringing in my ears. I slammed my fist onto the sink, roaring over the laughter, “He’s  _dead_ , dammit!”

Christ. The look on everyone's faces if they saw the Arkham Knight bawling in his bathroom...over a nightmare.

I probably shouldn't lie to myself. It's more than that. There's also that fact that I've done horrible things to the people I care about, and was heartless enough to do horrible things to people I've never met. The crooks I'll never apologize for, but…

_“_ My  _anger never got people hurt.”_

I had a converter in my chest that specialized in turning grief into rage. It did the job just fine, but I knew that it was just prolonging this cycle, not ending it. I'd be good for a couple of days, or three days or however long it is between nightmares and the brief minutes each day of bathing. I needed a better system. I needed to  _be_ better.

I met the Jason in the mirror's eye. “You can fix this. You can do it.”

I reached up to open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. There were mostly wound - dressing supplies, but there were three orange medicine bottles. One was full of the sleeping pills Tim left for me, I hadn't taken a single one. One was about half-full of top-of-the-line painkillers. I only took them when the pain kept me from doing my job. I screwed the cap off and downed a pill dry. Next to the bottles was a scooper, and I snatched that.

I turned to my bathtub and threw on the hot water, holding my hand in the stream. Once it got hot enough, I plugged the bottom of the tub and sat on the edge, breathing through my nose to hopefully slow my lungs. It didn’t take long for it to get full, and when it did, I moved to the bucket to the side of it, prying the top off. The strong scent of peppermint flooded my senses, and I breathed in deeply as I scooped out a heaping amount of bath salts with shaking hands. They settled, and I swished them around before peeling the sweat-drenched white tank from my chest, the lounge pants that were ripped in places.

I stepped in, my toes mingling with the salt and then I lowered myself into the water gradually, hissing in through my teeth at the temperature. Just right. The hot water tingled on my bare skin, but on the scars, which covered most of my body, the tingling soothed. I leaned against the side of the tub, hung my arms over the edge and let my head tilt back. I sighed in relief, and allowed myself to relax...something I'd forgotten how to do. My eyes slipped closed, and I fell headfirst into another memory that had floated to the surface, drowning.

_All was dark, and I knew exactly where I was. And when. I was almost sixteen and in a medically induced coma. You know. Same old, same old. I joke now, but then, I was truly scared. My cape had softened the landing, saving me and the toddler I'd dove out of the window after. I remembered my shoulder nailing the ground hard, and next I knew, I couldn't open my eyes. But I could hear everything. A beeping noise I immediately trusted to be my heartbeat. The doctor barking orders to good nurses, telling someone that whether or not I made it was up to me. If I fought hard enough, I would live._

_A door slowly creaked closed behind the doctor, but not seconds later, a sliding noise came to my left. My arms were heavy, like my eyelids. I was lead._

_“Robin.” Bruce sounded angry. “That was reckless…” He sighed. “And brave. The boy will live because of what you did today.”_

_Leave it to him to scold me and praise me, in the same sentence, in a hospital bed._

_“I rushed you here myself. Everything was arranged.”_

_Meaning he brought me here as Bruce Wayne taking his ward to the hospital after some kind of accident. No worry about someone bringing Robin to the hospital and finding out that it's Jason, connecting the dots, you get the idea._

_The awkward silence stretched out. These were common and you learned to expect them when you work with Batman. I didn't hear him cross the room but when I heard the chair squeak open, I knew he'd be here a while._

_“I brought you something,” He sounded oddly sentimental, one of the few times he's ever been like this. And he used his Bruce voice, the lighter one. “I came across this passage in_ The Great Gatsby.”

_I heard pages rustling, and my throat felt dry._

_Batman will bring your attacker to justice and break his kneecaps. But Bruce Wayne will stay up with you through the night and read you Gatsby._

_There was a faint smile in his voice, “And it reminded me of you…” His reading voice was smooth, and I never tired of hearing it. “_ He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced–or seemed to face–the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor.”

_I’d wanted to cry then, and was grateful that I_ couldn't help  _but just listen to the old man. “_ It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”

_He went on and read me another couple of chapters before he left when morning came. Later, I'd tracked down his copy of the book and found where he'd stopped reading. I placed it on his desk, maybe as a bashful thanks. Maybe as an offer to pick it back up when one of us got hurt next._

“Believed in you as you'd like to believe in yourself,” I repeated, my eyes opening again and exhaling a reflective sigh. “Nice thought…”

The bath salts was doing its job. My muscles relaxed, and my breathing was slower now and more even. Turning off the faucet, I sunk further down into the tub, until I was fully submerged. Water muffled my hearing and blurred my vision, and I watched each tiny bubble leave the tip of my crooked nose and climb to the top of the surface. Towards the light from the scrappy fixture in the ceiling. I saw my legs draped over the back end of the bath, because I was too tall to all fit in it.

I wasn't drowning. I could lean up and out of the water when I wanted...and there was a relief to that. I could submerge myself in what terrified me most and be there long enough until I needed air. Just be there a moment, smell the roses…

I straightened, water falling from my face and I broke the surface again. I slicked my hair with a hand and unplugged the tub, stepping out. I left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, and headed for a pair of shorts, then for my gym.

Time to train...so much for a night off.

………………

Dangling from a rope attached to a wooden beam with my feet eight feet off the ground,  _with one arm,_ I felt strong. Legs crossed at the ankles, free arm behind my back, and the arm being worked had the rope coiled around it. I exhaled pulling up, inhaled coming down. Little trick: exhale with exertion. ‘E’ with ‘e’.

I had a radio on the windowsill blaring Van Halen. My neighbors probably hate me right about now. It was six in the morning. Yes, I'm  _that_  guy, and I'm a little sorry, but not sorry enough to stop. Crime doesn't sleep. Neither do I.

Inhale, ease down. Exhale, flex and level my chin with my knuckles. Repeat.

To maintain a deep focus was never difficult for me, even after a nightmare. But for some reason, tonight my mind raced like it wasn't gonna reach tomorrow. I felt the nerves, coiling under my rib cage, then jolting skyward along my spine, shooting down around my arms and finally, settling in my hands. I let go of the rope, my bare feet smacking the floor and I crouched in recoil. I strode to radio, flicking it off and grabbing my water bottle, taking a drink. With a sigh, I poured a tiny splash into my palm before swiping the cold liquid over the back of my neck. The chill slithered between my shoulder blades, and I had to make myself ignore how it meandered with the scars.

I thought about what the old man must be doing. Was he licking new wounds from crusading abroad? I looked down at the calluses in my hands. Was he training like I was? Or was he waiting for the right time? Did he even have plans to come back?

I understood him. Bruce knew that Gotham wasn't an island, and that sooner or later, the mission would come to an end. I clenched my fist without thinking.

The mission isn't done. It never will be. Crime doesn't sleep. It isn't considerate. It doesn't stop to think about taking your parents, your brothers and sisters. It doesn't care if you're just some kid from the Narrows who'd been dealt a bad hand. It doesn't matter if you've worked hard for yourself, you'll still be extorted by some weasel. This is  _Gotham_ .

I mean, Christ, Bruce. With a crazy game this big, you can't just bow out gracefully when you don't wanna play anymore. What happened to Barb should've taught you that. What happened to  _me_ should've taught you that.

I glanced at Wayne Tower through my window. I'd never say this out loud, old man...but before you left...I should've said something. Instead of painting the floor at Panessa.

I used to think that I was never a son to you. That you thought of me as just another Robin. Just a Dick Grayson knockoff. An assistant. A  _scapegoat_ .

But...I uttered another rough sigh. I should've said something to you.

I shook my head, clearing all the sappy gunk out of my mind and picking up the jump rope. I did some rope drills boxers use, whistling the Van Halen song that'd been on the radio from where it left off.

And that's when my phone beeped in my pocket. I ignored it the first time, but when it called again I stopped mid-drill and fished it out. I wiped the screen on my shorts before answering.

“What, Dick?”

“ _You'll never believe this.”_

I raised an eyebrow. “The Knights lost to Metropolis?”

“ _Actually yes, but that's not the point,”_ Dick panted; he was running, “ _There's a Falcone warehouse on 30th and King that have a troop of boy scouts hostage. Gordon received an anonymous tip that Calendar Man will be coming through there in an hour. Thing is, they've barricaded themselves. Nobody can get in…We need something big to get in there, get the kids out and then bust Day.”_

A dark smile curled my lips, and I started walking to the engine bay, “What's the warehouse used for?”

“ _On record, it says clothing but word on the street is that they also use it to circulate drugs.”_

I went down the stairs two at a time, and eyed my girl on my way to a weapons cache I repurposed into a toolbox, _“_ Get in there, get the kids and wait for me. Get them in the safest place in there and then let me know.”

“ _Way ahead of you,”_ There was a smile in his voice, “ _Are you doing what I think you're doing?”_

I only answered him with a laugh, and ended the call. I found what I needed, and shook the spray can, the metal knocking in it stirring up the paint. I patted her treads and said smoothly, “I'm thinkin’ you've been cooped up too long, baby.”

I climbed the ladder to the roof of the tank, finding the Arkham insignia on the side. “Let's go out tonight, what do you say?”

I grinned, my finger over the sprayer.

“Make sure you wear the red one.”


	29. Me and God Don't Get Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's got the lives of a boy scout troop, a chance to deal another blow to Falcone and a joyride in his tank...all at his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In the land of gods and monsters,  
> I was an angel.  
> Living in the garden of evil,  
> Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed.  
> Shining like a fiery beacon,  
> You got that medicine I need  
> Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly.  
> Put your hands on my waist, do it softly.  
> Me and God we don't get along, so now I sing.”  
> \- Lana Del Rey, “Gods and Monsters”

……………………………………………………………

 

Relaxation was never part of Alfred Pennyworth’s job description.

 

At least until he came to Anguilla with Bruce Wayne. The sun was baking his weathered skin, his old bones not paining him as he relaxed with a peaceful smile drawn about his lips. His hand was cold, and he sipped a mimosa he rather fancied, sitting in a pool chair on their hotel balcony. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the summer breeze, the birds, and the ocean rushing the shore.

 

“Alfred!” The sudden and urgent sound of his master’s voice from inside the hotel room made his eyes flash open, nearly spilling his drink in the process. He was driven to alert from an instinct born of hearing the young master’s wails from the mansion’s nursery, the boy Robins’ crying from midnight nightmares, and even when he heard pots crashing in the kitchen when Bruce would attempt to spoil the old butler with breakfast in bed.

 

“A moment, Master Bruce!” He got up, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head and hurried inside, his joints protesting as he did. He shoved the sliding door open, demanding, “The cause for alarm, sir?”

 

“Come look at this.”

 

His eyes immediately focused on the distress in Bruce’s, the slightness of his strong but aging limbs, how his shoulders rolled as Alfred watched him mash buttons on the remote to increase the volume on their plasma TV. The butler joined him, clutching the cushions on the back of the couch the other man sat on as he saw the live footage GNN was showing.

 

“ _This is Vicki Vale, live from the Bristol district of Gotham City, in front of what appears to be a standstill between a hostile mob force that have taken a boy scout troop hostage and the Red Hood, a controversial figure bent on rescuing the children.”_

 

A tank, a red bat sloppily spray painted on the side, over the-... Alfred’s face paled as he recognized the vehicle. A _Cobra tank._ “That isn’t-“

 

“-It is,” Bruce confirmed, his gaze fixed on the crimson symbol on the side as the tank sped through downtown.

 

“It seems Master Jason is using the former instrument of Gotham’s destruction now for its salvation…” A pocket of pride and warmth nestled itself in Alfred’s chest, and he smiled.

Bruce did not share that, “He’s going to get himself killed; driving around the city in a tank? He’s drawing attention that he does not need to get the job done. Careless.”

 

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s tone was scolding, his eyebrows together. He resisted the urge to swat Batman on the back of the head. “If I may, was the BatMobile not part-tank and did you not drive it around Gotham like a madman? Not very subtle.”

 

“The car was your idea to begin with,” Bruce said, glancing at the older man sideways. “And it was you who taught me to drive one, but that’s beside the point.” He turned in his seat to face the butler. “Jason’s been reckless since the beginning, he isn’t _learning_. He can’t cleanse Gotham by killing.”

 

Alfred understood perfectly that Bruce was being critical from a place of love for Jason, but there was something painfully obvious that he could not be silent about. “And you have not learned any more than he has, sir. Don’t you remember what I told you when he disappeared after the Joker? That if you intend to change him and mold him into something you both know he’s not, you will lose him forever. He will fail and it will crush him. And it did!”

 

Bruce glared at him with enough coldness to supply a blizzard, but Alfred knew that he needed to hear these words. “Glare at me all you like, but you cannot argue with his results, sir.”

 

The younger man stood and walked away from him, as Alfred knew he would, towards the balcony. In a low voice, Alfred reminded dutifully, “Grab your suntan lotion, Master Bruce.”

 

With a light scowl, Bruce roughly seized the lotion from a stand beside the sliding door before he stepped into the sun. He watched as Bruce hunkered down into the pool chair he himself had just been lying in, settling into it.

 

Alfred sighed and shook his head minutely. He had enough patience for ten men with how he handled Bruce, let alone how harsh he was on the family he built. Jason was reckless when it came to defending those who couldn’t defend themselves, Alfred would never deny that, but he did so with an argument that Bruce wouldn’t ever be able to fully refute, and maybe enjoyed it a bit more than anyone was comfortable with.

 

The butler looked to the tank on the screen again. “Don’t you prove him right, Master Todd. I won’t hear the end of it if you do.”

 

……………………….

Okay, first thing to know about driving a tank? They’re heavy, so watch going up steep hills. Second, if they’re a one-man-crew tank like my girl, that just means that you have to watch _everything._ Thirdly, and here’s the important part, be yourself.

 

I settled into the seat, now fully suited up, and started her. “Miss me, darlin?” I heard her power unit purring, and I grinned. “Course you did.”

 

Now, the tanks that assaulted Gotham seven months ago were drones. Unmanned, didn’t matter if Batman blew them up. This Cobra? She’s special. She was a special order. A manned, carbon nanotube-armored tank with double 70 mm cannons, a smaller 25 mm gun on either side that I can play with, and a small storage compartment where the other operator would be, full of ammo for both the tank and for me. And if this got too ugly, I had four warheads that will make a good _boom_.

 

In short, she’s perfect and she’s mine. Can I stop gushing about my tank? Yes. Do I want to? Nah.

 

But the best part of her? Glad you asked. I reached under my seat for the case, unzipping it and flipping through CDs until I found the one I wanted. Scrawled in Sharpie was my handwriting: **For Her.** I skipped the first three tracks, until I came to the one I wanted. My lips split into a wide grin when it began and I pressed the button to lift the engine bay door.

 

……………………..

 

I was three blocks out, people swerving their cars to get out of my way and blasting Billy Joel through the speakers of my girl. The tank and the song got me tons of double-takes from passersby on the sidewalks. I kept on trucking, I had people counting on me.

 

It was the police officer directing traffic in the intersection that caught my attention. He was standing in the center, right in my way. Mid-forties, graying from what I could see under his hat, sun beating off the leather of his police jacket and the light glaring off his badge gave me a target if he got violent. But he wasn’t looking at the tank like it was a threat.

 

Slowly, I stood from my station and shuffled to the hatch, pushing the door up. I poked my head out, mouthing the words to ‘Uptown Girl’ – the song still playing as I rested an elbow on the lip of the hatch. He saw me, and did something odd. He nodded to me with _respect_ , then moved to stand aside to let me through. I returned to my station in a daze, a part of me amazed and another part suspicious. I gave the Missus a little gas, and she skirted on by the police officer.

 

I’m not entirely sure I deserved that, but before I could ponder it and decide no, a call was coming through my communications.

 

“ _Hood,”_ Dick sounded out of breath, “ _I’ve got the hostages, waiting in the back to your right.”_

I rounded a block onto 30th and King, and the warehouse was in view. I flicked a switch on an upper panel to my left, and the display in front of me was then tinted crimson, red ‘x’s over armed targets. In the upper corner, a count of armed assailants. Eight. And there was a glowing mass towards the back righthand corner of the warehouse, where the system recognized Nightwing and the boy scout troop. They’ve hid in the armored storage locker.

 

“Stay put, I’m-“ I started to say, but stopped myself, cursing under my breath.

 

_That fucking idiot._

 

Gordon and his men were forming a double-fronted line between me and the warehouse. The center was made up of two lines of four squad cars parked end-to-end, but I just made out Gordon’s moustache under a pair of goggles in the window of one of them. Bullock….Bullock stood next to him.

 

Keeping me from my kill, Commissioner?

 

“ _Jay, what?”_ Dick demanded urgently.

 

“Looks like Gordon’s not going to let me have fun today.” I asked him then, turning off Billy Joel mid-song, “Have you seen Day yet?”

 

“ _Negative. Not a glimpse or a peep. Hurry, Hood. I won’t be able to keep us undetected for much longer.”_

I slid my finger across the screen in front of me, bringing up a new set of controls. I threw up a radio field, splaying my fingers over the screen and snagging a frequency on the police line. I broadcasted to all of their comms, holding a button on the panel to my left and talking into the little microphone. A bullet of sweat dribbled down my forehead.

 

“Move your ass, Gordon.”

 

I watched him shake his head and say into his radio, “ _This isn’t how it works, Hood.”_

“Want to tell me why you’re in my way?”

 

I could see his moustache stiffening from here. “ _This isn’t anything new to me. A belligerent punk kid with a tank thinks he owns the streets.”_

 

Watch it, blue suit. “I. Don’t. Take. Orders. From. Cops.”

 

I saw him glance around and sigh. “Don’t do this, kid. Let me take care of-.”

 

I’m _done letting people take care of shit._ I rolled my eyes, cut the communications and floored it. At first, I had a minor heart attack when the officers didn’t move but soon, they realized I meant business – cleared out of my way. Gordon didn’t move from the end of the line, even when my tank started to overtake and trample the first squad car. I ignored him, hearing the crunching and squeaking of crushing metal beneath my feet, feeling the vibrations in the floor. I turned to the artillery panel to my left, tapping the icon for my grapple claw, and selected targets on the warehouse. The wire gun fired, titanium alloy-coated hooks punching huge holes into the enormous doors and attaching themselves to the far wall of the building. That’s all I needed.

 

I grinned. “Engage the juggernaut.”

 

Feeling immediately glad for the weeks it took to install this particular feature, I saw the red tank schematic dowse through to blue. And once it was complete…this baby was as good as a bomb shelter.

 

I let go of the gas pedal, the auto-drive kicking in and standing to a slight crouch in The Missus. Checking my guns, I kept an eye on the monitor as the tank was being drawn towards the warehouse, and when the metal doors warped and twisted as the tank’s armor cut into it through sheer force, I grabbed a German Heckler assault rifle from where it was strapped to the wall.

I winced against the screeching sound of metal on metal, and my shoulder rolled restlessly under the armor. Once my tank was halfway through penetrating the wall, I smacked the allstop button.

 

I tapped my comms to Dick. “Coming in.”

 

I shuffled to the exit, sucked in a deep breath while I removed a flashbang grenade from my belt. The air rushed from my lungs when I opened up the hatch and threw it up in the air despite the automatic gunfire in my direction. When it went off with a great flash of light, I cocked the bolt on the rifle and sprang from the hatch, rolling over the front of my tank onto the ground through blind gunfire ricocheting from the plating. I tumbled to a crouch and brought my rifle up, unloading rounds into the first three armed gunmen my tactical hood highlighted.

 

Dick would want me to choose nonlethal points on the bodies to shoot…but they put kids in danger. None of them deserve to walk out of here. A few racks of clothes that smelled like old lady perfume, which made me think the drugs they were circulating was all cocaine, were in my way of a handful of more guys. They were using the racks like barricades…I ducked behind one, getting low to the ground. The gunshots they fired burned the clothes around me, so I flipped my rifle onto my back and got my zipkick from my belt, waiting until they reloaded.

 

“ _Jonesy!”_ I heard shouting over the gunfire. I peeked over the pile to see a guy with a phone in his hand half-crouched behind a bunch of clothes. “Quick, call Calen-“

 

I flicked my hand above and aimed the zipkick at the phone guy; the hook grabbed onto his bulletproof vest, propelling him through a pile of clothes to me. When he got here, I wrestled my legs around him and cranked my thighs down on either side of his neck. He squirmed and tried to punch my legs while I got on my side to shoot at his comrades, but once he stopped, I let him go – put my feet on opposite sides of his face and broke his neck, pausing to crush his phone with my boot. Two more to go - something hot and sharp razed through my shoulder, sucking a shout of triumph back in and I barely got time to look to the higher rafters to see the laser sights of a sniper up high. I dove behind another stack, growling between my teeth. I grabbed my specialized handguns, gripping them tight and took a deep breath, catching the line of crimson going down my left arm from the wound.

 

This is the part in the cowboy movie when the two marksmen face off in the street at high noon…I always thought it was funny how they expected the two marksmen to be of equal skill. How one was just some no-name thug…and the other was Clint Eastwood.

 

I stood up and spun around, aiming both handguns at the sniper and firing until he hit the ground before I turned my attention to the two guys behind the stacks who had just gotten their guns up to shoot me. Nailed them both.

 

“Dick, come on!” I shouted, looking down at the white leather stained red on me. There was a strangely sweet odor coming out of my wound… Made me want to hurl, how sweet it was. A wave of vertigo hit my head, the colors in my vision melted together into a slurry…as I saw the black and bright neon blue blur come out of the storage locker, followed by a small crowd of brown bundles of nerves. The kids.

 

I tapped my tactical hood for the tank’s back compartment to open up. Just big enough for all seven of them to sit. I shouted over to Dick, “There’s a box of lollipops under the benches.”

 

Dick’s worried eyes were on me, but his priority was the children, telling them to get in the tank and helping some up onto the platform when they couldn’t by themselves. Once he told me that they were all in and contented with a sucker, I hit the button again to close up the compartment and rearm the defensive plating, only stronger.

 

My muscles contracted on themselves, and I stiffened at the pain. Like Charlie horses popping up all over my body. I felt Dick’s hand on my shoulder, “Jay, what’s wrong?”

 

“The bullet in my shoulder…” I wheezed out a shallow laugh that _did not belong there_. I glanced down at the wound again, only there was a faint greenish tinge to the blood.

 

He made a desperate noise, before I felt myself being hoisted with a grunt over his shoulder, his body armor cutting into my gut and nausea clouded my senses. I giggled hoarsely, “Shhhiii- _Dick,_ pu’ me down.”

 

“Not a chance,” He said, and my eyes slipped closed as he got to the ladder, feeling myself elevate, and then be haphazardly helped down the hatch to the tank. He laid me on the floor of the tank on my side with my back against the wall, my stomach killing me. He knelt for a moment, mashing the button on the back of my tactical hood that releases it from my head, pulling the helmet off. Fresh air flooded my nose, but my lungs were still on fire and my muscles tightened further, punctuating laughter with gasps of pain. “Dick, wait-“

 

“Tell me how to get this thing out of here.”

 

“Panel in front’a ya,” I slurred, coughing and trying to prop myself up on an elbow. “Jesus, my head.”

 

I dug my nails in the plates in the floor to pull myself towards Dick in the tank’s chair, which turned around as soon as my eyes slipped closed. I heard his voice, “Let me get you to Barbara, then-“

A bubble of anger flew up my throat into a shout, “NO! You get those kids outta here, or I swear I’ll gut you myself, Dickie…”

 

 _Sure, Jason…_ I thought to myself, losing consciousness after that burst of exertion and growing so, so tired. _Threaten your only friend in this god-forsaken city._


	30. Can't You Hear The Thunder?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason, usually so strong, has been put in a hospital bed and drugged with something that looks an awful lot like the copycat Joker toxin they discovered a few weeks earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “A candle casting a faint glow  
> You and I see eye to eye  
> Can you hear the thunder?  
> Can you hear the thunder that’s breaking?”  
> \- Ghost B.C., “Cirice”  
> …………………………………………………………………………………..  
> A/N: Thank you for all the support through 30 chapters of The Great Pretender!

 

Bits and pieces, it’s always that way when you’re drifting in the fragile limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness. Sensory memories almost forgotten afterwards.

 

Dick frantically calling Barbara to set up a bed at the Clocktower. Hot breath in my face as light was shined into my unseeing eyes. Children’s voices, but the syllables too meshed together to figure out what they’re saying. Tim and Barbara arguing, not sure about what. I heard Gordon too, briefly, as if in passing. Good. He nearly made a big mistake. Barb’s voice again, telling me I’d be okay…that Tim’s making an antidote, like that’s supposed to have me feeling relieved. And then she scolds me about the bruised ribs I’ve barely let heal, about how I throw myself into situations without thinking…. which is half-true. How I can’t do it all myself…

 

As her voice dwindled into whispers, I felt my chest armor being removed. I could tell it’s Tim, careful as a surgeon. That, and Dick’s further away, his voice accompanied by a sharp pricking in the crook of my elbow as soon as the skin was exposed on that arm. An IV. I fought to open my eyes, catching the syrupy liquid they were pumping into me.

 

A boom of thunder cracked, light filling the room from a window I’d just caught sight of. Dick had noticed then, rounding until I could see him. He looked like death warmed over; still clad in his uniform, though the top half of it was peeled down to his waist and he was mostly covered in grime and sweat. His mask was off, crystal blue eyes full of worry. Tim was behind him, his capeless back to me as he readied a syringe with something in a vial against the light. I couldn’t move my arms, and my hearing cut in and out like a scrappy radio, but I could see them. I could see the dark clouds rolling in outside the window, I could see Tim’s cape thrown over my still-clothed legs. Dick checking the IV and the heartbeat monitor, clipping my middle finger with the sensor.

 

Look at them all…fussing over the black sheep of the family. Going to all this trouble…for someone who tried to kill them six months ago. Rushing to save my life.

 

I blinked, and when my heavy eyelids opened again, the shadows seemed deeper, as if they were reaching out into the light with thicker fingers. But…that’s can’t be right. I felt my muscles tightening, my lungs expanding, and I heard my own heartbeat monitor quickening, my eyes widening, a scream rushing up my throat as he stepped out from the shadows clad in a dingy purple pinstripe suit with that disgusting yellow flower, the green hair, the white skin, the blood red lipsticked lips.  Dick’s hysteric voice as he held me by my shoulders, pushing me back onto the bed as I scrambled to sit up and get away from

 

himgetawayfromhimgetawayfromhim _getawayfromhimGET.AWAY.FROM.HIM._

 

Tim came over with the syringe, but his face and Dick’s were morphing, their bodies too, into _HIM_. A needle hits my neck as I thrash, and I’m knocked into a nightmare…and Joker comes with me into a memory that should’ve died with him.

 

 _“Tell you what, how about_ you _help_ me?” _The sound of his heels, and then I got a clear look at his spats as he stepped on my face. “I’ve been shopping for knives, and I just couldn’t pick…_

 

_I squirmed under his shoe, but he only put more weight on it, my crooked nose aching. I gritted my teeth and scrunched my lips, trying to loosen the duct tape._

 

_“Don’t look so alarmed, lamb chop.” He leaned down and roughly ripped the tape off, a yelp escaping my stinging mouth._

 

_“I don’t trust anybody else to be honest with me, really!” He bellowed a half-hearted laugh, before I heard the metallic singing of a knife being unsheathed. “You always seem to know what to say. Now…on a scale of one-to-ten, I want you to tell me how sharp each knife is.”_

 

_The first knife plunges into my back, and-_

 

I’m yanked by the soul right out of terror itself. I come down from the high of the panic attack, but my limbs are even more tired, and what fight and effort I could put into opening my eyes has bailed on me. I can’t see now, only hear. My face felt heavy and all I smelled was blood.

 

They'd fashioned me with my very own air tube that went up my nose and down the back of my throat. I could understand why...my lungs panged with dull pain every time I drew breath.

 

And the first thing I can hear is hyperventilation that I was very familiar with.

 

Barbara…something in my chest hurt as I listened to her. She sounded so close…like she was right at my bedside.

 

“I’m beginning to think that you have a death wish,” She was saying, and I felt her fingers poke under mine and hold them. “And I’ve been hoping that I’m wrong…but you’re not giving me confidence, Jason.”

 

My eyes got hot real quick.

 

Barb, I don’t have a death wish. Death was the kindest thing to happen to me. I prayed for Death to swoop down and take me someplace nicer every night, every _moment_ for over a year the way some people pray for God…but I don’t want to go back to death.

 

Nobody may _want me_ around, but they’re kidding themselves if they think they don’t _need me_ around.

 

“Barb…” It was Tim. Can’t I recover from being drugged in peace? I heard his light footsteps to Barbara and thought about how the only one of us who walks heavily on this rock…was me.

 

“You need to sleep,” He was saying to her, “He’ll be okay…He’ll recover.”

 

“Tim…it was the copycat Joker toxin…” She inhaled jaggedly, the air hitching…like she was holding back from crying. She squeezed my fingers. “He almost died right here…you saw how much blood he coughed up…how it was coming out of his eyes…and his ears…”

 

Jesus Christ…I had a burning urge to scrub my face clean, scrub hard until every bit of it was off. I could tell by how my cheeks stung a bit that someone had already cleaned my face, but I felt dirty…tarnished. Ruined. Rotten.

 

“I know,” Tim said, “I know.”

 

“It was just so _much blood_ …” She was good and crying now, and my insides felt like they were being wrung with the hand she used to hold mine. “Like it would pour out of him just to drown us all…” She did something that shocked me to my core…she kissed my callused knuckles. “First to get up for someone else in danger, personal safety be damned…”

 

“I would _never_ tell him this if he were awake,” Tim whispered, and I could hardly hear him, but if I could’ve moved my jaw, I would have dropped it. “But when I became Robin…My ambition was only limited by my own fear. His death made the thrill and the danger of the whole thing legitimate. He was the brave one I’d read about in the papers. The one that saved three kids from a fire, Alfred told me…because he was in the neighborhood…”

 

He uttered an exasperated, defeated sound from the back of his throat. “If there is one way that he was a better Robin than I could ever dream of being...something you can't train into a person...it's courage. Robin was a job, a half to a two-part dynamic. Batman was vengeance and the night, but Robin was justice and the dawn after the dark…” He sighed. “But that's all it'll be for me, a job...i applied for it. Him and Dick? They lived Robin.”

 

He moved, turned away from me and it was even more difficult to hear him. “If he's got problems with me being Robin, it's warranted...because he died for the ideals. He died for the mission once already and here he is, almost doing it again. I haven't. Sure, I took a bullet in the side and a lot more over the years for Bruce and the mission...but that’s small compared to what he’s been through. If he's got problems with me replacing him, it's warranted...because so far? I haven’t earned it. All I've done is push when we should be coming together. Him and Dick and you and me. Us four are all that's left for fight for what Bruce almost died for.”

 

Even with the ingrained stealthy walking, I heard him leave. Barbara’s voice had a smile to it, though I could tell she was still choked up. “I really, really hope you heard that…”

 

I did.

 

And I would never tell him this if I were awake, but Tim...you've earned it. And I’m not realizing it now because you’re being nice while I’m at death’s door. Really. I don't think the old man could've picked a more capable little shit for the job.

 

I was fading now, slipping back into the abyss of unconsciousness...but I quietly hoped that I'd be able to thank Tim for that by not dying on Barbara.

 

………….

 

_I remembered being smaller...not the scrawny kid anymore...but the brash teenager. I'd woken up in the middle of the night, sweating on a bed that wasn't mine, in a room that was given to me but had belonged to someone else that came before me, in a house that wasn't mine either, but jolting awake from a dream that was so distinctly mine that it terrified me to declare ownership of it. And so I went seeking one of the two men that sought to make me claim something in Wayne Manor, who took me in without second thought. Gave me a fighting chance._

 

_I got lost fast looking for their rooms...so I sufficed to find the kitchen, which I did know quite well...having smuggled food out of there for a couple of years at that point. Even though I knew they wouldn't cast me out onto the streets, it became habit to behave as if I was a houseguest nervously double-checking every move so I wouldn't overstay my welcome. Alfred always kept it well-stocked; two pantries, shelves of different kinds of bread and bagels and - my target - the fridge._

_On nights like those, I grabbed the large tub of Cool Whip and the container of blueberries and mixed them up...because they were the only remedy I knew of for nightmares. It just tasted like comfort. Like a warm hug. The lightness of the whipped cream and the summery, happy taste of the blueberries...especially when you're lucky to find a blueberry that was slightly soft._

 

_“If I'd known that you were prone to sleepwalking,” I almost dropped my spoon at the sudden voice, “...I'd make sure to remind Alfred to get special shoes for you to wear to bed.”_

 

_“Bruce, I-”_

 

_“Relax, son,” He was wearing black lounge pants and a dark blue robe. “I take it you couldn't sleep either?”_

 

_I shook my head, my eyes falling to my food, ashamed._

 

_“It's the boy again... isn't it?” The corners of his mouth had a natural downturn to them that made every expression he made that much sadder, so when he frowned, it was even more pronounced._

 

_He didn't wait for me to nod, he knew he was right from looking at me. “It's okay, Jason…”_

 

_“No, it's not…” I put my spoon back and ran my hands through my disheveled hair. “It's been a month, I should be over it and…” I sighed, my throat thick. “I should be focusing on what's next- the thing with Tetch that cropped up-”_

 

_“Hatter can wait.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and he had a way of looking at you to make you understand that it was going to be okay. “Jason, it's alright to feel sorry for losing someone...you did what you could. His injuries were too severe when you got there. And even if you rationalize it that way to yourself, that doesn't guarantee that your emotions will listen to your brain.”_

 

_I knew he knew something about loss. I'd heard the stories about the Waynes being gunned down in Crime Alley, where I grew up. Right in front of him. But he was just a kid then...and he knew that, somewhere before the anger took over and Batman was born._

 

_He let go of my shoulder and walked to the fridge. To my surprise, he pulled out two beers. Bruce ‘I can't drink because it entails fun’ Wayne, grabbing beers. I wondered idly if beer for him was what Cool Whip and blueberries was for me; something for grief and nightmares._

 

_I understood why he didn't drink in public then._

 

_He leaned against the counter, popped the caps off both of them and pushed one to me._

 

_I laughed hollowly, wanting to make a joke about my being underage or something...maybe get angry, but he made a gesture. And I appreciated that when I was younger. He was never one to do this type of thing with words...it was all gestures like this one. So I took the beer, muttering a thanks._

 

_He tapped the neck of his beer gently against mine before taking a shallow drink._

 

_“Cheers.”_

 

_He stood there for a while, I sat on a stool at the island in the center of the kitchen. I ate my Cool Whip and blueberries and drank from my beer. And he stood there and drank, consumed in his own thoughts._

 

_Sometime after the stove clock read 3AM, Bruce finished his beer and told me he was going to try for sleep again. He stretched his thickly muscled arms and began to walk out when I stopped him._

 

_“Hey, Bruce?”_

_He halted mid-stride and looked over his shoulder, the alcohol in my system making his eyes oddly darker. “Yes, Jason?”_

 

_“Say you were in my shoes…” I licked my chapped lips in my hesitation to ask this. “And you were too late to save someone you were hell-bent on keeping safe…And it was your fault...how would you cope? Would you sit here and have nightmares, or…” I hardened, revealing that part of myself that I knew he would rather I not have. “Hunt the bastard responsible down and make him suffer?”_

 

_A beat passed and he had an answer for me. “Both.”_

 

_“And…if you failed,” My voice broke on the last word, “…how would you forgive yourself?”_

 

_The shadows that covered half his face resembled his cowl. “I wouldn’t.”_

 

…………………..

 

I had her name dangling from my tongue when I woke, not having the nerve to say it but too fixated on it to swallow it down whole. My dark eyelashes fluttered as my vision tried to get clarity, and my limbs felt like lead, exhausted from how the toxin clenched them tight, I imagined. I could move my fingers, wiggle my toes. The soothing eucalyptus soap smell hit me full force, and I glanced down to see that the blood on me had been scrubbed off…

 

Once I could see, the first thing I noticed was Dick fast asleep on a chair by my bed.

 

“D-Di...Di…” I wheezed and tried through a dry mouth to say his name. My air tubes had been removed, and my nose itched, the back of my throat burned. I clawed at the sheets, struggling to push myself higher on the pillows. It was misery, feeling so weak and out of balance. Absolute misery.

 

I felt broken, like my limbs were tied together with thread so weak that any sudden movement would sever the connection. There was above metal tray that hovered just above my lap. I tried to jostle it with my leg but that didn't work. So I gathered my strength and with a great effort, knocked it to the floor by flipping it with my hand. Dick jumped with a yelp, almost falling out of his chair at the sudden metallic clang that made me wince as it cut through the silence.

 

His eyes then focused on the source and widened once they found mine. “Jay, you're awake!”

 

He got to his feet, taking my hand in his. “How do you feel?”

 

“W-water…” I could barely get that out, and I was glad that it was him. Anyone else and I'd never get over the embarrassment.

 

He nodded with enthusiasm, hurriedly jogging to the sink on the far wall. The Clock Tower infirmary wasn't nearly on the level of the one in the BatCave, but it made do with the view of the city. I looked out the window at the way the thunderclouds threatened to drown Bleake Island.

 

A Gotham Knights mug full of water was being carefully pushed into my hand then, and I thanked him with a curt nod before I drained the whole thing. It helped and after a few attempts at clearing my throat, I could talk. Sure, I sounded like an eighty-year-old chain smoker, but it was better than nothing.

 

“How long was I out?”

 

Dick settled back into his chair. His hair was a mess, and the dark shadows under his eyes told me that the nap I saw when I woke up must've been the first he'd slept in a while. He was still half-clothed in his uniform. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he answered me. “Three days…”

 

My eyebrows lifted. “...days?”

 

“Mmhmm,” He kept glancing at my heartbeat monitor.

 

I attempted to lift my other arm, but my IV made that complicated. “When does the tether come out?”

 

“Not until we're absolutely sure you're outta the woods.” Dick told me firmly, his eyes warning me as if he thought I might try to be an unruly patient. “You're not leaving that bed without a clean bill of health.”

 

My voice was low and hoarse, and I massaged my neck as if to smother the fire in there. “What's the diagnosis?”

 

He leaned back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it. “At first, we thought it was just copycat Joker toxin...but when we ran the tests on your blood and reviewed how your body reacted, we decided that it couldn't just be that.” He sighed. “You gave us a good scare...you had blood coming out of everywhere. Your eyes, your ears, your mouth… I got you cleaned up...Right now, Barbara and Tim are still running further tests to determine what else you were injected with.”

 

I sucked in a breath, being reminded of why I was in this predicament in the first place. “Tell me you got those kids out.”

 

“I did, they're all safe,” He quirked a smile. “They called you a hero, you know. They made me promise I'd get you to a hospital.”

 

“Well, I did threaten to gut you.” I reminded him, a wash of relief flowing over me before another point of anxiety came back. “Where's my girl? She okay? Just tell it to me straight.”

 

“The tank's fine, Jay,” He laughed, patting my leg. “She's in the parking bay downstairs.”

 

An odd silence hung in the air between us then, the distant sounds of Gotham streets a distant companion long forgotten. A reminder of what we found for, I suppose. I couldn’t stop staring at my hands. The clamp over my finger that lead to the heartbeat monitor was still there, along with the countless calluses and scars that wove around my fingers. Side effects of this life.

 

“This is my fault,” Dick said after a few minutes, his voice far away.  

 

I blinked, shaking my head minutely. “The hell it is…This is Falcone, this is all him…” He was glaring off into the distance, and I waved my hand to get his attention. His bright blue eyes bore into me when I told him, “There were kids on the line. This was a job.” I gestured at myself. “ _This_ is collateral damage.”

 

“Why is it always you?” He asked quietly, “Why is it you that always gets the worst of it?”

 

“Dick, you’re doing it again.” I told him, “Beating yourself up. I’m going to be okay. Tim and Babs will figure it out. I’ll bounce back. Now knock it off with the worrying shit.”

 

I could tell he wanted to tell me something. Confide something in me. I knew him well enough to pick out how his gaze darted around the floor, how he rubs his thumb into his other palm. His mouth parted, as if forming his words. He had just taken in the breath when the door opened, Barbara rolling in behind a uniformed Tim with a clipboard in his hand.

 

Barb’s eyes lit up when she saw me, and I failed at fighting the grin when she rushed over in her wheelchair, “Jay, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

 

“Better now,” I shot her a wry smile, “But I’ve had worse.”

 

“Our hunch was right,” Tim announced, handing me the clipboard with Barbara’s handwritten notes and calculations, “It wasn’t just the copycat Joker toxin. We found traces of Scarecrow’s fear toxin and…”

 

He pointed a finger at the long name at the very bottom that she had circled in red.

 

“Kronosium?”

 

“Otherwise known as Titan,” Barbara explained, “This was what Joker used to overdose four years ago at the Asylum, and what he died from.” She looked very uncomfortable then. “It’s…known to have severe side effects, even a small dose could’ve transformed you into….not you.”

 

My stomach dropped, and my blood ran absolutely cold. Dick’s eyes were wide, biting his lip. I had…been drugged. Nausea rose in my head, swirling at the back of my throat. “I think I’m gonna be sick…”

 

Tim pointed at the clipboard. “Under the notes you’ll find pictures of what you could’ve been, had you been given more.”

 

I hesitated, but eventually poked a finger under the papers and lifted up to see the photos. Abomination came to mind. Huge hulking people with their spine bones sticking out of their backs, glowing green eyes, no restraint, no humanity left…Jesus.

 

“What are the side effects?” I demanded, glaring at Tim and giving him his clipboard back a bit more force than necessary.

 

“In you, none whatsoever,” He said, as if the words coming out of his mug were an amazement to himself as well, “But in others…there were varied results. Joker, we saw a complete antithesis of who he was. The conniving madman became a twelve-foot-tall, clumsy brute. For Bane, his greatly enhanced strength came at the cost of his memory centers.” He paused, “And for Bruce…well…we’re not really sure. All we’ve got are the tapes of Scarecrow torturing him with fear toxin at the Asylum seven months ago.”

 

I remembered. I saved him…I could hear him screaming, _the Batman screaming at the top of his lungs_ – before I saw him from my vantage point in the main hall. Screaming that he’ll never be forgotten, he’ll never die, he’ll never be caged again…I knew they were really Joker’s words, projecting outwards through Bruce…But still. It bothered me, in the days afterwards…that I had just seen the him broken for a few mere minutes, but he will never, ever see a single second of the agony I went through for over a year. He’ll never get it.

 

Maybe it was a need for validation, even if the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me made me both angry and physically sick at the same time. I'm not saying this for sympathy. I just wanted someone to understand...someone to get me...maybe what I was looking for was someone to say, “If I knew back then...I'd have come for you.” I understand it's not rational and next to nobody knew where I was or what Joker was doing to me. I'm not proud of this line of thinking…

 

Breaking me out of this was Dick speaking, asking Barb a question, “So basically, what you're saying is that we have no clue what this stuff will do to him?”

 

“If it does anything at all,” She reasoned, turning to him. “He had so little a dose that it may do nothing. When Dr. Young created it, she pushed Bane to the point of overdose to have any effect. I mean...it makes sense, the stuff was created for patients to survive extreme treatment…”

 

“And still, this much almost killed him,” Dick pointed out, a crease between his eyebrows.

 

“Before,” I said suddenly, and all eyes snapped to me, “When I was freaking out, I was seeing Joker...He was standing just there,” I jerked my chin to the corner of the room by the windows. “That was the fear toxin part of it. Worked to a T...the Joker toxin bit explains the laughing I was doing before I lost consciousness.”

 

Dick nodded. “You were cackling all the way to the Clocktower...I thought your heart would give out.”

 

“It almost did,” Tim added, glancing at the notes.

 

“Now...this…’Titan’ shit,” I took a labored breath, the soreness of my throat wasn't pleased with how much talking I was doing. “You haven't noticed a change or anything since I've been here?”

 

Barbara answered me with a sigh. “We did detect a slightly elevated proliferation rate when the gunshot wound healed...but that was it.”

 

That wasn't anything to be concerned about, initially. I typically healed pretty fast, even as a kid. Something Joker found delightful...he could tear me apart as fast I healed. But something about this didn't smell right.

 

If the toxin cocktail they shot me with changed my physiology, they wouldn't do it without a purpose. Falcone wouldn't give me the means to withstand anything he threw at me without an ulterior motive. That doesn't make a lick of sense…

 

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. I tucked this away in my head to stay awake thinking about later. “So…what now?”

 

“Right now, nothing…” Tim shrugged, “We’ll be running regular patrols while you recover, which will take at least a week to be absolutely sure there aren’t any adverse effects.”

 

“Waiting,” I grouched, my lips spreading into a scowl. “Just great…”

 

“In the meantime, Lucius has been organizing a charity event for the last few months,” Barbara said, her glasses glaring off the light beside my bed, “It’s for the victims of Fear Halloween, sponsored by the Wayne Foundation. He’d waited so long so that those affected could have a chance to rebuild their lives before being invited to something that they’d need nicer clothes for.”

 

“Well, I’ll need somebody to run back to my safehouse for a tux,” I insisted, pushing myself up on the pillows and prepared to swing my leg over the side of the bed when Dick held it back.

 

“Oh no, you don’t,” He warned, standing up. “You are staying here. If there’s any chance Falcone might hit the event, we want you safe.”

 

“If there’s a chance Falcone might hit it, why the hell is the Old Fox having it?” I grumbled, my eyes narrowing.

 

Barbara patted my knee. “It was actually Bruce that suggested it to Fox before he disappeared…Part of it is a tribute to Bruce, and the other part is to make the point that no matter who steps into this city, no one will make them too afraid to have a peaceful evening.”

 

“But Barb, it was me who made Fear Halloween happen,” I pleaded, leaning forward in the bed and the purpose and the drive flooding my senses had me dizzy before long, “It was me who did that…I need to be there to…”

 

I trailed off, not sure what exactly I was aiming at. Dick and Barb both looked at me with a thinly veiled sympathy. But my replacement didn’t share their understanding, nor their tact.

 

“To do what?” Tim ventured, staring me dead in the eyes, “To torture yourself with what you did to this city?”

 

My hands got hot and itchy to close around his neck, red creeping its way to the outskirts of my line of sight and my heartbeat monitor sure as shit caught onto my mood. This kid was on my last murderous nerve. In my periphery Barbara shot him a harsh look, and I knew she resisted the urge to roll over his foot with her wheelchair.

 

“Get out, all of you.” I growled through my teeth, a thunderclap boomed overhead and it mimicked my rage.

 

Tim, for once, had enough sense to be the first to leave. He stalked off, clipboard under his arm and didn’t look back, the prick. Whatever peace we made in the Iceberg Lounge, I figured, was long gone in his eyes. And everything he said earlier…was either a lie or a too-proud sentiment that he wouldn’t dare express to my face. Maybe he meant what he said earlier, and maybe he was doing it for my own good…but where it concerned the charity event…no. He doesn’t have the right to say that to me.

 

Dick followed suit after a moment, casting me an apologetic glance before he disappeared behind the door.  

 

She stayed back, Barbara. Her eyes were glued to the floor, her face pressed against a hand that was propped up on the armrest of her chair. She chewed a fingernail in her mouth pensively. Then, she said, “Jason…I know you typically do what you know is right, but I’ll ask you anyways…please, sit this one out. Let yourself rest.”

 

I let the words sink into me like bruises as she wheeled herself out, shutting the door behind her. I appreciated her caring about my well-being. It was rare that anybody thought to look after me, but in truth, no one has to.

 

And if they want me to sit out the charity event I made necessary? Out of self-preservation?

 

…Over my cold, dead body.

 

 

 

 


	31. Whipping Boy Done Wrong, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The charity event is nigh, and while Jason is injured, he's not going to let anyone else get hurt. Desperate times call for...you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "With time the child draws in.
> 
> This whipping boy done wrong.
> 
> Deprived of all his thoughts
> 
> The young man struggles on and on he's known
> 
> A vow unto his own,
> 
> That never from this day
> 
> His will they'll take away.”
> 
> \- Metallica, “The Unforgiven”
> 
> …………………………………………………………………………………….

 

All my life I’ve never been good at following directions, no matter who was giving them, but I always took them into consideration. When Alfred would tell me to take my uniform with me when I’d go back to my old stomping grounds in Crime Alley, I would consider it for a second.

 

Sure, I might run into trouble, but if some kid from there was backed against the wall, I wanted them to see a regular kid jumping into the fray. Let me explain this. You’re the kid, right? Two or three other older kids are about to beat the tar out of you. They’re bigger, they’re meaner, and they’re likely buying crystal meth from a lab in the area, if we’re being realistic here. We’ve got a slight epidemic of meth being sold to children in Gotham. So before these kids can get their hands on you, of all people Robin with his banana yellow cape and tights comes in and saves your ass. To some people, Robin may have been just a kid but Batman and Robin were held to a different standard as it is, by the law if nothing else. The first thing the would-be victim is gonna think is probably that they got lucky, that nobody will step in next time…and then they’ll be eating out of a straw or worse.

 

Change the scenario. Rewind to before the fight starts. Say a guy who looks pretty average, jeans and t-shirt were my wardrobe of choice back then, and saves your ass. A regular guy. What this proves is that anyone can stand up for somebody else. That was why I never took my uniform with me to Crime Alley.

 

Now, what does that have to do with my inability to follow directions? Here’s what: when Gotham City needs me and someone’s threatening an event that’s doing a lot of good, I don’t care if both of my legs are gone – I’ll flip over and walk on my hands if that’s what it takes. Breathers don’t exist in our line of work, and even if I end up dead in this stupid tuxedo that felt like a straitjacket, I’ll live with it if it kept somebody safe.

 

I’m not even that bad. My ribs only hurt when I laugh or cough, I can lift my arm until about shoulder-height without grunting in pain, and as for the effects of being drugged? Well…my head gets fuzzy if I moved too fast and anything that was even remotely bright purple or green made my stomach churn. But other than that, I was fine.

 

We’d gotten here a full hour ahead of the guests, mostly because if anyone was VIP at a Wayne Foundation event, it was the family. And by we, I mean Tim and Barbara drove together, Dick came alone, and I grappled here from the building across from Wayne Tower’s convention floor that was reserved especially for these kinds of to-dos.

 

After I was finished hurling in the men’s room and had brushed my teeth with one of those disposable toothbrush things with the attached toothpick and built-in paste, I saw her wheeling herself away from Tim the minute her eyes found me.

 

Some people discuss Barbara’s looks like she was pretty but the wheelchair had dimmed the lights. I grinned, looking at her now. They’re full of shit, all of them. She was a vision in a cerulean blue dress that fanned out from her knees and spilled over the footrest of her chair, but not touching the floor. Her red hair pulled right back into an elegant knot at the back of her head and her glasses were switched out for contacts, her sky blue eyes staring right through me.

 

Her painted peach lips curved upwards in one corner, “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

 

“You don’t sound surprised,” I noted as we went together over to the fruit bar where they had chunks of melons on toothpicks and bowls of berries.

 

“I’m really not,” She admitted, staring around at the great expanse of the room.

 

There was a warm breeze blowing through the huge windows on our right and out the ones on our left, and I could faintly smell Barbara’s perfume as the air carried it, along with the salty smell of Gotham Bay. We had quite the view up here. Lucius spared no expense; there was a higher level which I knew was strictly reserved for the family and super-associates from other cities, where we could relax and let our hair down, or get into work clothes at a moment’s notice in case Falcone rears his ugly one-eyed mug. Across the room from us was a half-moon shaped stage where a small jazz band was setting up and doing scales.

 

“Do you remember the first time we came to one of these?” She asked me at my side, pulling a bowl of strawberries onto her lap and handing me one.

 

I quirked a smile at the memory, one of the best I had of Barbara. “’Course I do,” I bit into the berry that seemed tiny in my rough hands, humming at the taste, “You taught me how to dance.”

 

I remembered her joking with me, towering over me on ballerina long legs, that Batgirl and Robin dancing together was a tradition she’d started with Dick. She’d taught him to dance too, but then she’d leant in and whispered to me that she thought that for all Dick’s grace, I was a better dancer. Me, an inner-city kid who’s presentable dancing basically ranged from terrible eighties dance moves and stuff I made up on the fly.

 

“What I wouldn’t give…” Her quiet words made me frown. She didn’t think I’d hear, but still.

 

I’m not saying I’m not an asshole, because I am. I’m not saying I’m not an outlaw, because I am. But what I am saying is that I’m a decent friend to those who’ve been so to me.  

 

“Well, Red…my ankle’s gone to shit,” I said, turning to her and taking the bowl from her, setting it on the table. “But I’ve got a dance in me.”

 

“Jason, I’m fine,” She said in protest, but my hands were already scooping under her legs and behind her back, and as I lifted her up she squealed, “ _ JAY!” _

 

“Non-negotiable,” I grinned, carrying her over to the dance floor while the few people that were there looked at us with appreciation and in Tim’s case, light jealousy.

 

For the first time in a while, I forgot the brand was there and just held my best friend in my arms.

 

“Hey!” Once I had the jazz band’s attention, and they saw us with smiling eyes, I requested, “Something for old friends, boys.”  

 

I shifted her slight weight onto my hip almost like a mom would a baby, wrapping an arm around her waist and back, taking her other hand in mine. Barbara was giggling, her forehead on my shoulder. The music started in seconds, harmonica riffs that sounded like jumping off rooftops felt. It fit. I shifted awkwardly into a weird square formation and to hell with staying with the steps. She shook her head as we danced.

 

“What?” I asked the bundle of blue satin and red hair in my arms.

 

She lifted her eyes to mine. “Last time we did this, I was taller than you and now you’re carrying me.”

 

I leaned in and said lowly to her, “Back then, I felt like you were carrying me and…trust me, you are still carrying me.”

 

She smiled as the standup bass thumped from behind me. “You’re my best friend, Jason.”

 

My palms got sweaty fast and I hoped that she couldn’t tell. She put her face on my shoulder again, letting my heart race without her being able to see it in my eyes. A minute passed of quiet shifting my weight from one foot to the other, just holding her. The one person I’d claw through hell to carry to safety.  _ My  _ best friend.

 

I ventured in a whisper, “Can I ask you something, Babs?”

 

She met my eye. “Anything.”

 

I licked my lower lip, hunting for words. In the end, they came out in a rush. “If you could have one thing in this world, what would it be?”  

 

“Jason…” She sighed, warm breath hitting the bare skin on my neck. “Why do you ask?”

 

“Just answer the question?” I said, my eyes on her earrings. Diamond studs.

 

Her ginger eyebrows came together. “What brought this on?”

……………………………………………………………………..

 

If I'm honest, if it's a day that ends in ‘Y’, I'll usually say that my relationship with drugs of any kind was complicated. 

 

My mother died from an overdose. My earliest memory of my father was watching him making lines of cocaine on the toilet lid. And I remembered what followed. In any choice between loving me and loving drugs, I lost either way. Their love was split between death and absence. Which I suppose, they both did. 

 

But me? I've smoked since I was eleven. I've never had a drinking problem, but I've found no better way to bury my sorrows than putting them into glasses of tequila or in the smooth taste of a Gotham beer. 

 

We used drugs in the militia, but not to enhance performance, though I knew many of my brutish soldiers juiced their brains out. Literally. The medics I employed used a sort of doctor drug that was capable of sewing flesh together, mending bone, fixing bruises...Now, I know what this looks like. How the hell did lil ol’ Jason get this stuff, right? There were only two people I knew that had accelerated healing. There was Superman, the other was a bona fide Amazonian Princess that's been in hiding for years on some island no mortal can get to. 

Well. I had to play with Slade Wilson. In my years fighting alongside Batman, no matter how much damage the old man put into Deathstroke - next week he'd be fine and assassinating again. Broken jaw? No problem. Punctured lung? Fine. Shattered femur? Walk it off. 

 

Bruce didn't look into it because the assassinations were outside Gotham and therefore, not his concern. I did, but not until after my year with the clown. I tracked him down to Venezuela, just a stone's throw from where I'd train the militia later. He didn't take me for much. An old Robin looking for a fight. Well, he wasn't wrong about the fight. 

 

Slade’s no slouch, but I still managed to get him to negotiate when I mentioned I wanted Bruce's head on a stick. Turns out he'd gotten blood from both Superman and Wonder Woman from sources he never disclosed. Fixed you up, but prolonged and repeated use could have ugly side effects. Thing is, he wanted a trade. The technology and the cocktail he'd whipped out from enhancing the blood he stole, for a chance at Bruce if I failed. I'd rolled my eyes and shook his hand, but I took some small comfort in the fact that I'd spied a Luthorcorp logo on Clark's blood. If Deathstroke screwed me over, I knew where I could find more blood. 

 

I'd never had the occasion to use any of it when I was the Arkham Knight, but I kept some...just in case I’d gotten in enough trouble. I thought this would qualify.

………………………………..

**EARLIER**

I snuck out of the Clocktower, limping and in enough pain to make it hard to breathe...but no where near the worst I'd ever experienced. This was a four on the scale, and I've had a year of seventeen before, at seventeen. 

 

I was still wearing my armored pants and had thrown on my white tank, but the minute the summer air hit my chilled skin, I sweated like nothing else. I was tempted to drive my girl home, but a tank that's been all over the news driving through Pioneer’s Bridge might attract the kind of attention I was in no shape for. So I stole Dick’s motorcycle, an old habit that just didn't die. I blazed the streets of Gotham with my eyes half-closed, not a moment's worth of care taken. Not my best course of action, but far from my worst.

 

The firehouse hadn't been touched, but looking down at myself, I'd started to bleed through the bandage on my shoulder. The blood was staining the white material, and ran like a hot river down my bicep. I got lightheaded pretty damn quick and threw up the kickstand, clumsily getting off the bike. 

 

I braced a hand and watched my feet stumble the few steps to the side door of my place. The one Abigail left through when I told her everything. I curled my hand around the knob, blinking the blur away as I turned it. 

I couldn't see for several seconds, but I knew my safehouse. I shut the door behind me, trudged the last paces to the chest tucked under a workbench jutting out from the opposite wall of the building. When I got to it, I pulled the heavy thing from under the workbench with pure brute strength alone and when it finally came out, my fingers lost the grip and fell flat on my back, my shoulder blade cracking into the floor hard. I was dazed, sweat slicking every marred plane of my body. I pressed a hand against my shoulder to stem the blood, compress it...It was smearing it all over the concrete...I sat up, unsteady, but I was so dizzy, trying to remember the combination on the lock as I slumped to my knees was nearly impossible. With slippery fingers, I fumbled with the knob on the lock until I got all the numbers in the right order and I heard the click as it released. I slid it off and pushed the lid back, revealing a memory lane I'd closed down months ago. 

 

I don't even know why I went back for it in the militia compound...but there it was. The metal slabs for ears, the broken frontal display, the cloudiness of the bulletproof metal hood that kept my anonymity...yeah, the Arkham Knight's helmet was my only security for the years I spent training the militia and doing surveillance on Bruce. I didn't know if I'd be killed by snake bite during the night, but I knew that I could wear this and breathe easier for a while. I was safe from anyone who knew me, or used to know me, or wanted to know me or mirrors. 

 

My armor was in there too. Sometimes I considered adapting some of it to my new uniform, but the tank problem would crop up again. But under that was the metal canister with the syringes full of Deathstroke’s serum. My breath hitched in my throat, and even though my relationship with God wasn’t exactly peaches, I wondered if He was laughing at me when I lifted the canister out of the crate. I wondered if it looked like my mom gulping down a bunch of pills with tiny me in the next room. 

 

I took the cap off the needle, my eyes on the brownish red liquid inside. I licked my dry lips. I thought about Abigail and honestly, sincerely, hesitated. I was supposed to be good for this place. My eyes got hot when I imagined the look on her face watching me. The inner ends of her eyebrows pulling up, shining eyes and the same lines forming in her frown that usually did when she smiled. 

 

There was a vein already sticking out of my arm. I stared at the sharp end of the syringe, holding my thumb over the plunger...I sucked in a breath. My city needed me. That girl in Otisburg was trusting me not to screw this up. If I failed her, if I failed my city, if I failed Barbara, if I failed Bruce -  _ again _ , if I failed…

 

Something wet slipped over my scarred cheek. If I failed...I’m not any better at doing my job than I was back in that Arkham wing tied to a chair with barbed wire. 

 

I exhaled slowly, steeling myself to what I was about to do. And then I braced myself...not for the needle, that was easy...I was bracing myself for the medicine.

 

……………………………………………………………

 

**NOW**

 

“I ran into a miserable prick earlier that made me rethink life a little bit,” Not exactly a lie. The English language’s connotations have saved me again. I shook it off. “Don't worry about it, you don't have to answer. It's stupid.”

 

“Jason,” She said in my arms with no finite degree of concern and scolding in her voice,“It's not stupid...What do  _ you  _ want most in the world?”

 

That made me look at her, a cold something lodged under my ribs. I knew she wouldn’t let me off without an answer, asking me this. I had to give her one she’d believe...I caught myself and bit the edge of my tongue. Or I could just tell her the truth. “If it were possible...I think I’d want away from all this. Just... _ not  _ do what we do. Retire.” I sighed, my nose wrinkling. “I know it’s not realistic…”

 

She uttered a hollow laugh. “Who ever said dreams were realistic? That’s the point of them...to give you a goal. To yearn for something more, enough to keep you going, keep you focused.” 

 

“And what if yearning is the closest you’ll get to it?” The song was drawing to a close and I glanced around to find her wheelchair where I’d left it. 

 

“You and I both know the answer to that, Jason,” She said firmly, as I spun us around one last time before I started back to the fruit table. “You accept that your path is altered, and usually, the path you end up choosing? It’s even sweeter than the first one you started with.” 

 

I let a smile show through as I lowered her back into her wheelchair as carefully and gently as I could, then knelt to arrange the bottom folds of her dress. She shook her head, beaming at me and my hands stopped on the satin material when her hand came to the side of my face. Her voice rippled with sincerity and her thumb was covering my brand, “You listen to me and you listen well, because I’ll only say it once: you are a  _ good person.  _ And good men do not come from good places.” 

 

My throat felt like it had swallowed wax again, and my lips parted as her hand fell, turning her chair away from me. Across the room, guests were beginning to crowd the entrance as Lucius’ men mustered to seat and serve them. Tim was looking at us from near there. 

 

Barbara spoke again as I rose to my feet, “One day, Jay...I hope you’ll convince yourself of that.” 

 

I shoved my hands into my pockets as she wheeled herself towards Tim, who glanced from her to me and back as she approached. Tim, who kissed her knuckles before he wheeled her to where they would be seated at Lucius’ long table near the windows. I slowly walked backwards, watching them smile unspoken secrets and then went for the steps up to the restrict upper level. 

 

I don’t know what it was about watching them like that that made me feel so uniquely alone that nothing else could. On a rooftop in the rain, I didn’t feel alone. Drinking by myself in my safehouse didn’t either...maybe it was because I’ve never had anybody in my life like that. I got to the top of the stairs and strode to the railing, leaning my forearms on it. I saw the people pour in like a dam breaking down. 

 

I saw Lucius shake hands with a lot of people in suits, thanking them for their donations I presume. Dick came strolling in on the phone, his hair styled and his eyes popping off the blue waistcoat he wore. I read his lips; he was talking to someone named ‘Kory’ and from the looks of it, he would rather be with her tonight instead of here. He ended the call, spotted me and nodded in my direction with a grin. I returned the nod but not the smile. He plucked up a glass of champagne and disappeared into the crowd. 

 

Gordon had just walked in, with his prom date: Harvey Bullock. Aww, look at Jim putting himself out there. I kid. From the way they walked, they were both packing at least two guns. My eyebrows went up. They expected trouble. I spied several other police officers from the roster Barbara sent me last week. Carson. Hanrahan. Even Cash with the shiny hook. I’m reminded of his daughter, Dolly...I imagined the stubborn set of her lip when Aaron told her she couldn’t go...possibly because this joint might be bombed tonight. I’m glad she didn’t come. 

 

Tim and Barbara were sitting side by side at the long table, actively avoiding Gordon’s distant scrutinizing eyes as they kissed quickly and laughed together. 

 

...Yeah. I wished I had somebody like that. My fingers involuntarily went up to my brand. But who would want to kiss  _ me _ ? Touch  _ me _ ? I'd always thought love was something out of my reach...maybe it always will be. I don’t know, part of me had accepted that it was hilariously stupid and inadvisable for anyone to be with me. Another part wanted it anyway. 

 

Probably what I get for cultivating my concept of love from Regency Era novels Alfred worked to my English curriculum. But it’s not the only place. My understanding of love...came from the people I’ve been around. Granted, I sure as hell didn’t learn it from watching my parents, though I understand that anyone who hopes for love must be able to withstand the pain that can result. But the loves that I’ve seen that work...Replacement and Barbara, for example. He’s irritating but at least he’s good to her. Or back in the day when I saw glimpses of it in Catwoman for the old man...not sure what she thought she was getting herself into, but hey, good for her if she can handle the awkward silences. 

 

Love, in my eyes, had to have a level of difficulty to it...When I did want love...I imagined it to be a ridiculous, stay-up-all-night-thinking-about-her, willing-to-die-for-her, willing-to-kill-for-her, all-encompassing, life-changing, painful, redeeming kind of thing. So many things in life are mediocre. I mean, certainly not my life. Diving off skyscrapers wasn’t what I’d call mediocre. But...what I’m saying is that love should  _ never ever _ be mediocre. Or else it won’t be worth it. At least, not to me. 

 

My fingers found the crook in my elbow, over the place I’d done the serum injection. Another labor of love. A risk I was willing to take. 

 

I turned the thought of love over and over in my head, like a precious rock I knew was too expensive to take home with me. A few minutes later a server came up with a few glasses of wine and champagne, along with a few plates of cheeses and fruit. After he left, I fished the lighter out of my pocket and lit up a cigarette. 

 

I moved away from the railing, sat down at the table and dumped the blueberries out of a bowl on the table. I used the bowl as an ashtray and ate the berries as I waited for something more my speed to happen. 

 

“You know there’s no smoking at this event.”

 

I laughed out puffs of smoke and smothered my white streak of hair back with the rest. I knew that voice. “What do you want from  _ me _ , Clark?” 

 

He sat down opposite me on the table in a blue tux with the totally-not-fooling-anybody glasses with his hair thing fixed going on, pulling a glass of wine towards himself. I knew he was unbothered by alcohol. He smiled good-naturedly at me, “Put that out first and we’ll talk.” 

 

I stared at him until he got the hint, pinching my smoke between my fingers.  But just when I thought Clark was going to let it go, he cups his hand around his mouth and blows a quick stream of icy wind at my fingers, my reflexes only fast enough to drop my cigarette. It falls to my lap an icicle. 

 

I growled lowly, glaring down at it, “They don’t have manners on planet Kansas?” 

 

“I’m trying to help you, son,” He said apologetically, sipping his drink. 

 

I stood up abruptly, picking the smoke-sicle up and tossing into the ashtray bowl, passing him on my way to the stairs out of here. “I don’t remember screaming ‘save me, Superman’ in that Arkham wing.” 

 

“Bruce asked me to relay a message.” 

 

I stopped in my tracks, my foot braced on the first step. 

  
  
  



	32. Whipping Boy Done Wrong Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's running into more old faces than he'd like at this event, and he's beginning to think that there's a reason for that.

“With time the child draws in.

This  **whipping boy done wrong** .

Deprived of all his thoughts

The young man struggles on and on he's known

A vow unto his own,

That never from this day

His will they'll take away.”

- Metallica, “The Unforgiven”

…………………………………………….

 

I looked at him through the corner of my eye, fully prepared to descend down the stairs and say to hell with them both. But if the old man had a message for  _ me _ ...maybe I should hear it. Clark could’ve just told Dick. He liked Dick better. But he came to me. 

 

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” He said coolly, peeling the skin off a grape with his fingernails. “I’m just trying to help. But if you’ll hear what I have to say, I’ll leave you be.” 

 

“Funny,” I came round the table and him again to sit where I was before. “I almost believed you there.” 

 

His eyebrows came together behind the glasses and I explained, “You said that like you actually wanted to be a part of this now. You’ve stayed away while Bruce went through hell, eating popcorn with all of your powers while me and him tore each other - and Gotham - apart.” 

 

His fingers stopped on the grape, and he stared at it with a purpose, his knuckles white. “I asked Bruce so many times to let me lighten the load...and he told me that if I flew in and saved the day, that would make him look useless. Ineffective.” 

 

I rolled my eyes, and my chest tightened. “Bruce was useless all by himself, you didn’t have to do it for him. Doesn’t change the fact that you could’ve stopped me.” 

 

Look at him sitting there. All the power in the world...and look at me. I’ve been powerless so many times that I would’ve given anything to have what Clark has for even a second. A second was all I would've needed back then.

 

“Is  _ that _ what this is about? This anger?” He sounded surprised, his eyes boring holes in me and I got a sense of what dying by his heat vision would be like. “That I didn’t stop you from torturing Gotham-”

 

“Shut up,” I snapped sharply. It was all I could do not to launch myself across this table and make a scene out of breaking my hand punching him. Coming to this event was about penance, not rehashing stuff with the one guy who could’ve prevented this event from being necessary. I forced the words through my teeth and glared at him as coldly as I could. “Forget about it. I don’t expect you to understand. Just tell me what the old man couldn’t say in person and then leave.” 

 

I watched him compose himself. He squared his shoulders, pushed up his glasses. Clark said in a low voice, “He’s managed to track down Harley Quinn to Mesoamerica, and…” 

 

“And what?” 

 

“Well, Bruce seems certain that the League of Assassins have taken her to their most recent stronghold is in the Guatemalan highlands, on the old Maya ruins,” Clark wasn’t giving me a lot of confidence that I’m going to like this. “Bruce has spoken with Nyssa, you know- Talia’s sister-” 

 

“-I know who Nyssa Raatko is, Clark,” I grouched, remembering how irritating it’d been as Robin to have Superman treat me like some kid. Like Dick who worshipped Clark.

 

“Fine,” He said, “Well, it appears that this sect of the League is working independently. Bruce thinks they’re al Ghul loyalists.” 

 

“But I thought they all left Gotham when Ra’s finally died,” I furrowed my brows, “Why bother if there isn’t an al Ghul in power anymore?” 

 

“Bruce thought the same thing,” Clark nodded, “He thinks Bane traded Harley to their leader for something, but was double-crossed…One of them has set this up. And Bruce thinks it’s got a lot to do with the new Joker attacks.” 

 

My feet came off the table as I tilted forward to put my head in my hands, elbows propped on the table. I reasoned aloud, something about the cogs in this scheme not quite meshing, “Wait...so...at the beginning, Joker frees everyone locked up after Halloween...alerting us that he's around. Harley is kidnapped by Bane. Then the suicide victim I scraped is covered with a faux Joker toxin enhanced with Scarecrow’s amped fear toxin. Bane is screwed over by a League assassin that abides by Ra’s’ ideals, taking Harley to Guatemala...Then someone shoots me with the cocktail toxin at a Falcone shootout,” Clark's eyes widened, he hadn't known about that. “And you and Bruce think that the Joker victims and the assassins are all connected…” 

 

“I'm not sold on the idea but that's the theory Bruce is betting on,” Clark said, “It just doesn't feel right...for one, all records indicate Joker is dead and that if anything, the toxin is a look-alike formula - not the real deal that he always kept consistent.”

 

I knew he noticed me stiffen, but didn't comment on it. I masked my unease by shrugging off my blazer, settling it on the back of my chair. My fingers itched to roll up the sleeves on my shirt but the scars under there...I'd rather Clark not see them. 

 

“Regardless, we have to think- what if he is back?” I swallowed and cleared my throat but the uncomfortable thickness would not be thinned. I hooked a finger under my collar and stretched the fabric. “We can't get careless.”

 

“Jason…” He trailed off, staring at me and his eyes were piercing behind the glasses.

 

“What?” I squirmed under his heavy gaze like thousands of cobwebs were being thrown over me and I couldn’t move, yet wanted to get as far away from him as possible. His eyes narrowed. I couldn’t tell if he was using his x-ray vision, good God- he is, isn’t he? I hoped he didn’t see the chemicals in my system, couldn’t see his own blood running through my veins after I’d given myself the serum...

 

I tried not to let relief show when he didn’t ask the question I’d been dreading, “Are you alright?” 

 

I knew what he was doing. The ‘he’ll change when he wants to change’, ‘first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one’ garbage. He was baiting me to open up to him. 

 

“Look, I’m probably the last person you want to talk to,” He added, and I cut him off before he said anything sappy that would make me any more nauseous. 

 

“You’re absolutely right.” 

 

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone,” Clark had reached the end of his patience with me, or I suppose he thought I was a lost cause. Either way worked. He stood up and pushed his chair in like the boy scout we all knew he was. “But if you want to talk, here’s where you can find me.” 

 

He slipped a few fingers into the breast pocket inside his jacket, pulling out a card and setting it on the table in front of me. He didn’t say anything more, just turned away and left the way he came. 

 

I picked up the card, the raised lettering feeling weird with my callused fingertips. Business card for the Daily Planet, but with his number and Lois Lane’s at the bottom. Great. Options. 

 

I felt bile rise in the back of my throat and I got to my feet, a hand pressed to my side. 

 

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” 

 

…………………………………………………………………..

 

When Lucius finally brought the event together at the podium, Tim steeled his face where he sat beside Barbara at the long table. She took his hand under the table without looking at him, and he squeezed it in response. She was thinking the same thing: these kinds of relief efforts usually begin by talking about  _ where we were  _ on the doomsday in question. 

 

Tim wondered if Lucius was really going to stand up there and pretend to the survivors listening to this speech...pretend that he wasn’t helping Batman that night. Pretend that there were two Robins and a Batgirl at the table. Pretend that the man responsible for their lives being ripped at the seams wasn’t in the room...Tim glanced up to the upper level, expecting to find Jason brooding up there but there was no one. 

 

_ Maybe he couldn’t stomach it after all _ , Tim thought grimly, turning his gaze back to Lucius who was about to speak, shuffling notecards on his podium.

 

“I am Lucius Fox, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and inventor,” He began, squinting at the cards. After a moment, he removed his glasses, like he was stripping away the businessman and was revealing the human to the crowd. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I was going to read from the cards like the board told me to...but I’m not talking to the board…I’m talking to the people of Gotham, and shall do so accordingly,” He tossed the notecards by his feet, and Tim was surprised. He’d never seen Lucius Fox like this, so unrestricted and informal, “...unlike many of those who came before me, I was not born in Gotham.” 

 

“I came here a young inventor with a few patents to my name who’d just left Metropolis because Wayne Enterprises offered me a job. I met the Waynes and my relationship with Gotham City began. I learned that there are three kinds of people here. The first are people like the Waynes, people like those in attendance here tonight…good, hard-working, optimistic people,” He gestured to them all, and Tim saw many of them beam at Mr. Fox, “Then there are people like the villains you hear about on the evening news, the criminals...people who want nothing more than to create chaos and see the spirit of others crushed beneath their boots.” 

 

“The third kind...well,” Lucius hung the rest of the sentence in the air like a strand of rope without hanging anything on it. Tim knew the decision had to be here, but when Fox spoke again, the third Robin was stunned. “The third kind fall with Bruce Wayne and all who fought by his side for the safety of this city. Bruce Wayne was, in fact, Batman.”

 

Tim watched the crowd carefully as these particular words were said. He had been trained, as were the Robins before him, in how to read people. How to see agitation before violence, depression before crying, and concentrated rage before a mob forms.

 

There are several families with missing figures. An anxious single mother breastfeeding her child beneath a loose blanket thrown around her chest. A middle-aged father with a young daughter in a frilly dress that looked out of place beside her father's shabby clothing. But none of them, not one, acted as though the topic of Batman's identity was offensive or aggravating in any way. Save for the board members of course, who all sat at a table a bit removed from the others towards the windows. They glared at Lucius collectively.

 

“The third sort of citizen are a blend of the two others,” Lucius held up his fingers and interlaced them, “They combine the best intentions and the drive of the first, with the willingness to resort to unorthodox methods of the second. These are figures like Robin.” Tim did his best to keep a smile off his face and he felt Barbara’s hand twitch under his as Lucius continued, “Like Batgirl. Like Commissioner Gordon who is in attendance tonight.”

 

Tim squeezed Barbara's hand and met her eye. She hid a grin with her wine glass as she lifted it for sip.

 

But then Lucius did something really surprising and included the black sheep of the family, “And like the Red Hood. But the man who really exemplified these traits...was the Batman. Bruce Wayne. However, he is not alone. These exceptional people are all around us. They are people in this room. Let me introduce one of them,” He turned to the far end of the long table where Tim and Barbara sat, “Allow me to welcome the first winner of the Bruce Wayne memorial scholarship: Miss Abigail Byron, Master’s of Philosophy.”

 

Barbara almost dropped her glass, and Tim's eyes caught Jason walking out of the men's restroom across the vast room, wiping his mouth. But when Jason's eyes rested on Abigail, Tim saw his face harden with shock as he looked at the blonde woman walking to the podium. 

 

………………...

 

The taste of vomit was still in my mouth, but a whole new wave of nausea hit me full-force in the gut when I saw her and discovered that the color that suited Abigail best was deep red, the color of blood.

 

The dress pulled in at a smaller waist than the oversize shirts had alluded to, with long sleeves all the way to her wrists and a high neckline that crawled up her throat. Her blonde hair was down and she had more of it than I realized. From this distance, I couldn't tell if she wore any makeup...but her lips were darker. She wore heels and could walk in them without wobbling a bit. Hard to believe, looking at her, that she was the chick who saved me from bleeding out in that parking garage.  

 

“Thank you, Mr. Fox,” She said courteously, before regarding the crowd. She kept her hands in front of her and fiddled with her fingers, the ends of the sleeves. She's nervous, and she hadn't seen me yet, “I would not be so bold as to put myself on the same level as Bruce Wayne, but if there is one thing I like to think we shared was our ability to improve - not only ourselves - but our surroundings. I have been in Gotham most of my life, I was raised here. You know as well as I do that this city has corners so dark that light can be a very hard thing to come by.” The crowd between us made small noises of agreement. “My master’s thesis was to prove the existence of light in Gotham, that justice - true justice can be dealt in a place where even human decency is elusive.”

 

My mouth went dry. 

 

“Imannuel Kant, moral philosopher, once said,” She quoted, “‘The death of dogma is the birth of morality.’ Before my time, before the Batman was at year one, the common dogma of this city was that it cannot be helped. The people truly believed that crime would continue to reign and the cesspool would only deepen and expand.” 

 

She held a sad smile as she paused, and something in my stomach twisted. I knew she was thinking about her mom, who’d died in service. 

 

She continued, her jaw set like she would happily argue this point till her deathbed, “The birth of morality for Gotham was when people like Batman and Commissioner James Gordon came here. Because they rejected the dogma of Gotham City that people like Scarecrow and the Joker endorse. They rejected it with such conviction that they would die trying to destroy it, or in the very least, contain it...Because they did not get their strength from manpower, or warped ideology, or stolen goods, or fear...No, they got it from people like you who believed in them, in what they were trying to do,” She waved a hand to the audience, “Bruce Wayne always needed his fellow men and women, just as they needed safety for their families. This event, this scholarship, this city, these people... _ we  _ are Gotham. Thank you.” 

 

It was then that her eyes flickered to the back of the room and caught onto mine as the audience clapped for her, a few of the police officers in the room whooping. I watched as remorse and discomfort chased each other across her face. The breeze through the windows caught her hair and blew locks of blonde across her face, but her eyes never left mine. Slowly, I began to clap with the crowd and my mouth curled in a half-smile. Congratulations, sunshine. She stared at me, our gaze holding as Lucius came to the side of her and announced something, but I wasn’t paying attention.

 

I broke the eye contact first, weaving through the standing crowd until I reached the stairs up to the upper level again, feeling light-headed. I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers as I climbed, then itched my neck nervously. The jazz band on the stage had started playing when I reached the table again, servers making room below for dancing. 

 

But I wasn’t alone up here now. Dick was pouring two glasses of wine, and when he saw me, he smirked and handed me one. I took the bottle from him instead, putting the glass bottom up towards the sky and pouring a hearty splash down my throat. White wine, Chateau de-somethin’...I hated white wine. I drank it anyway. 

 

“Just say it,” I said once I came up for air.

 

Dick just looked at me, worry in his eyes that didn't extend to his smile. “You didn't tell me that she applied for his scholarship.”

 

“Didn't know.”

 

“Well, she's…” A muscle in my neck jumped and he saw it, chuckling, “Driven, intelligent, strong moral compass,” He commented, sipping from his own glass and smiling at me like he knew something I didn't. “Plan on talking with her?”

 

“Not if I can avoid it,” I said, glancing at him, “Any word on Falcone?”

 

“Had a short chat with Gordon just before I came up,” He said, leaning on the railing and running his thumb along the mouth of his glass. “There was a scuffle at one of the surveillance posts they had, but they reported in. It wasn't a problem.”

 

“Are we sure that the men are still ours?” I asked, shrugging, “Could be paid off or replaced.”

 

“That's what Gordon said. We should keep our eyes open regardless,” He told me, “Clark just left.”

 

“Good. Did you two get talking?” I swirled the wine in the bottle in my hand, resting my forearms on the railing. “About Bruce's theory?” 

 

He nodded, gazing thoughtfully into his glass. “I think he's right.”

 

“I think he should keep digging,” I scratched at a scar on my wrist. “Something just isn't gelling with this…”

 

An easy silence fell into place as we watched the audience let loose for probably the first time since Halloween. These were just...ordinary people. Not investors, not donors, not board or corporate sharks. These were just people. 

 

“Look, man…” Dick moved closer to me and lowered his voice. He paused, then pinched the edge of his lapel, where I knew there was a hidden microphone through which Tim would likely listen later. “I know you won’t give me an answer here, but I also know there aren’t many options you can turn to to heal severe injuries in hours.” My shoulders stiffened, and I opened my mouth to speak, but he shook his head to stop me. “Don’t. Don’t say anything.” 

 

I took another sip and scowled at the taste. “Barbara.” 

 

Dick replied automatically, “Yes...she noticed your pupils were smaller earlier, your one arm was weaker when you carried her. Typical of heroin use but we both know that’s not the case.” 

 

“Trust me.” was all I said. 

 

After a few minutes of looking at me, he shrugged. “That’s hard to do when you don’t tell me anything.” 

 

“Really, Dick?” My teeth gritted, and I turned and set down the wine bottle with enough force to make me think I cracked the glass. “You’ve been keeping something from me for  _ weeks _ , and suddenly I’m the untrustworthy one?” 

 

“That’s-” He started, but I grabbed the shoulder of his coat with a hand and tugged him closer. There was nothing in his eyes - not fear, not disappointment, but there was determination. I was astounded to find hope there too, but then again...this was Dick. Of course he did. 

 

And this was me. “-I don’t  _ care _ what it is.” I let him go, watching. Of course I did. “Unless it concerns my problem with Falcone or my problem with Joker.” 

 

He looked away. It did. It wasn’t Falcone, that much I could tell. He shook his head, grinded his teeth, and put his back to me. I watched him still, “After tonight, I want everything you have...and then I’ll tell you what I’m doing.” 

 

Doing this made me feel like an idiot, or Bruce or some stupid executive schmuck or something. I held my hand out to him. An olive branch. A sacrificial lamb. Whichever got me the information I wanted. 

 

He glanced over his shoulder, smiled as if he knew all along that I’d do this. Like he was just testing me. He grasped my hand, squeezed it like he believed in me. Maybe he did. “Deal.” 

 

And then he turned and left anyway. And I was left watching him walk away. 


	33. Whipping Boy Done Wrong, Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason runs into an old friend...

 

“With time the child draws in.

This  **whipping boy done wrong** .

Deprived of all his thoughts

The young man struggles on and on he's known

A vow unto his own,

That never from this day

His will they'll take away.”

- Metallica, “The Unforgiven”

……………………………………………………..

 

A full hour passed, and I was so antsy I was contemplating how many scumbags I could kill in certain periods of time. Give me fifteen minutes? I could have Two-Face in distinct piles of two, just how he’d like it. Three minutes? Ratcatcher strung up like people in Venezuela would have actual rats over actual fire before they actually ate them. Tail and all. I had fried rat once...and then was bent over the toilet for a few hours. 

 

But the point was...I was bored shitless. I needed a Rubik’s cube or something. No, not a Rubik’s cube, I solved them too fast to really tide me over. Damn. I can only bowl with grapes and baby carrots so long before I want to tear my hair out. I leaned back in my chair, my head craned back and eventually, my eyelids came down. 

 

“Took me a while, yeah…” My eyes flew open at her voice, panting but firm. “But after convincing Mr. Fox that I knew who you were, what he was to all of you...He told me where to find you.” 

 

“Not nice to harass people, Abigail,” I said without looking at her, “Sneaking up on people isn’t much better.” 

 

A part of me remembered that the last time her and I were this close, I’d had blood on my hands and she was in her car, terrified of me. I’d just saved her life, last time we met. My hands ached a bit from beating her attacker to death. And the last time we actually exchanged words...she had discovered the worst of me, seen the worst of me...And I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as I thought back to that day just over two weeks ago. 

 

“...How much have you had?” She said quietly. 

 

She appeared  _ off _ , is all I can say about how she looked up close. Her lips were fuller than I remembered, especially her lower one. That could be the lipstick, though. There was a barely noticeable discoloration along her jaw and the freckles on her nose were faded. Her mouth moved, “Well? You smell like a bar, how much have you had?” 

 

“Not enough if my vision’s screwing with me this bad,” I squinted, though in actuality I could see her just fine. I played along so maybe she’d find me too drunk to waste time with. “What happened to your face that you need to do all that?” 

 

Her nose scrunched. “Do all what?” 

 

I nodded to her, “That. The makeup. What happened?” 

 

“Nothing,” She said dismissively. I didn’t buy it, but let it go, wasn’t my business. She wanted to keep her cards close. Fine with me.

 

I shook my head and sighed, grumbling, “What do you want?” 

 

“I had no clue you were here. Not sure I would’ve minded not seeing you again, and I know you wanted it that way too.” She wasn't wrong, “...but when I saw you, I wanted to see you,” Abigail said diplomatically, doing her best to keep her face placid, but I knew she was unnerved that she hadn’t been able to fool me. “After the spectacle you made driving the tank around Gotham, then shooting up the Falcone place to save those kids…” She swallowed. “I wanted to see if you were…” 

 

“Don’t tell me you were  _ worried  _ about me.” My eyes went a bit wider, actually surprised. “Don't waste your time.” 

 

“Who I waste my time on is sort of my decision, isn’t it?” She walked to the chair furthest from me on the table where I sat, before carefully sitting down, smoothing her dress under her thighs. Abigail fiddled with a lock of dull blonde hair as she said, “Don't change the subject. You were driving around in a  _ tank.  _ In  _ Gotham _ .” 

 

“Desperate times, kids on the line.” I said simply, and she huffed, her messy fringe of blonde bangs fluttering. “I’m fine. No need to care about a murderer.” 

 

“I care because you saved my life,” She snapped, hurt in her eyes, “Twice now.” 

 

“So what?” I shrugged, sliding head-first into that cold place that forced me to say things that didn’t taste right but would likely keep me out of trouble. “This really ‘bout keeping score? Getting even with me? Waiting around to see when I screw up next so you can write a paper about it? Find you another scholarship, maybe? Make a speech...” She bit her lip against what I was saying, but I continued. “That was some speech, sunshine.” 

 

“Don’t call me sunshine,” She said quietly, eyes on her slim fingers.

 

My eyebrows raised. “You know why I call you that?” She didn’t answer. “It’s because you are the only person I've ever met to see a bottomless pit of death and shine a light down to see if there's an end. To make the pit think there is one.”

 

“Gotham is not a pit of death, Jason.” She winced as her lips spread into a frown. “It's not hopeless. It can be reformed as many times as it's torn apart. That's what the city has been doing from Halloween up till now...sure, there's Falcone and the rest of them but that's not Gotham. That is not Gotham’s fault.”

 

I wanted to tell her that I wasn't talking about Gotham. My eyes fell to the table, where a crushed grape was sticking to a napkin.“You're right...it's not. Not this time.”

 

“It's not yours either. Look, the reason I came up here...” She said, leaning forward, “Look at me.” I did, peering at her through my eyebrows. “When we last spoke…”

 

“If you're about to apologize for walking out on me, don't,” I started to say sincerely, before I began to tell her lie after lie, “I'm fine. I've got everything under control.”

 

She stared at me for a long while. Then, she broke the gaze and I knew she didn't believe me. But she didn't give that away with what she said next, “I don't want you to think I hated you.”

 

“No one would blame you,” I jerked my chin to the dance floor. “They certainly wouldn't.”

 

“I don't hate you,” She affirmed steadily, “I still believe that you were wrong for making a city suffer for a vendetta against one man, but I understand why.” Gail glanced at her hands. “Oh, I understand. I was so angry with you and part of me still is, but I still feel awful for just leaving. Like, you told me your biggest secret and I just walk out?” 

 

“Gail, don't do that,” I leaned forward, reaching my hand across and tapping the table to get her attention. “Listen, what I did is unforgivable...and believe me, I will pay for it.” Her eyes softened, biting her lip as if unsure. “I  _ am _ paying for it. You walking out was…” I hunted for the right word, a million coming to mind but none of them I really wanted to say. “difficult, sure. But I get why you did it.”

 

She and I both knew that the real reason she walked out was because of how I found out about her records. But we both were ignoring that for now. I didn’t mind. 

 

“Doesn’t make it right,” She pressed her palms on the table before she got up from her chair, and I noticed that in several places bandages were curled around her fingers. 

 

The door was just by me, and when she passed, she placed her hand over the one I’d had halfway across the table. It was a gesture, and it shocked me. Her hands were cold. She said, “Hey, I don’t know if this is a great idea, and if this is too much, you can tell me to go to hell, but I went through plenty of trauma counseling after my mom died and one thing I really took away from that was that you can’t deal with something like that alone. Trust me, I tried...if you ever want to talk or just...need company, you know where to find me.” 

 

And then her hand left mine, and she disappeared out the door towards the stairs. I sat there for a full five minutes, dumbfounded and gazing after her. The time after I told her I was the Knight...with the nightmares, being shot at, doing the shooting, the toxin-induced hallucinations, being stuck in a gurney for a few days, dragging my bloody ass all the way to my firehouse and taking the injection that felt like every atom was being ripped apart and burned as it healed, going to this event for a sick kind of penance...From what I’ve seen on her tonight, something told me I wasn’t the only one going through hell. 

 

I found myself standing up and sliding down the railing of the stairs after her. I caught her just before she left through the curtain out into the dance floor, “Gail!” 

 

She wiped under her eyes roughly, looking up after a moment. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her cheeks were still shining after she’d dried them. My stomach knotted as I leapt from the fourth step down to the landing where she was. She let go of the burgundy curtain and faced me, covering her forehead and eyes with her hand. 

 

My arms hung at my sides, my hands numb. I asked a really stupid question, “Are you okay?” 

 

She locked eyes with me. Hers were red and bloodshot with crying, her eyeliner was smeared. I ran my thumb under it, along that soft skin as gently as I could, and managed to get rid of the graying black. She inhaled a shaking breath through her nose and sighed jaggedly. 

 

She got a hold on herself before my eyes, and I watched, knowing the process by heart. She straightened, staring at her hands - black lines of tear-diluted eyeliner on them. She bit her lip, which I saw  _ was _ a little fatter...someone’s punched her and she’s covered it up with lipstick.

 

“Not at all,” She said, her usually steady voice teetering. 

 

My brand burned as I answered back, “Me neither.” 

 

The song outside the curtain changed, all saxophone and stand-up bass. She backed up until she was leaning against the dim wall, arms hugging herself. 

 

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Do you wanna dance?”

 

She glanced at me, and blinked. “Oh, uhm…” 

 

I held out my hand, like Barbara showed me when she taught me all those years ago. She inhaled a deep breath and after a moment, sealing my inner anxiety into doom, she took my hand. 

  
  



	34. Heart's Too Big For Your Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's body is put to the test, along with his heart.

“Someone's turning the handle  
To that faucet in your eyes  
You pour it out  
Where everyone can see  
Your heart's too big for your body  
It's why you won't fit inside  
You pour it out  
Where everyone can see”  
Melanie Martinez, “Cry Baby”  
…………………………………………….

It was about halfway between the safety of the curtain to the stairs and the patch of empty dance floor by the windows when my heart started to slam hard in my chest. Sade was playing, soft and slow. Abigail’s hand felt heavy and weird in mine, and when she turned to face me, came closer and put her free hand on my shoulder, one of my own carefully touching the smooth material of her dress at her waist under my fingertips...Oh good God, did my insides clench up with anxiety and nervosa. We started to sway from one foot to the other, and I was watching her eyelashes flutter as she readjusted her hand in mine. 

She met my eyes. Is this alright? 

I answered her. I interlaced our fingers, and when I saw her get red around the one ear where her hair was pulled back, I smirked. She rolled her eyes and sighed in defeat, resting her head against my collarbone. 

I let a silent laugh fall from my mouth before I pressed it to the top of her head, swaying with her. Just holding her. Stunned. Dumbstruck...or just dumb. 

“This may come,” The song continued, “This may come as some surprise...but I miss you.” 

The lyrics went on, but I was almost in a daze with her, and I took a second to glance around. And recompose myself.

Nobody really was looking at us, at first. I spied Barbara across the room slowdancing with Tim, but entirely focused on him. I couldn’t find Dick or Gordon, but Bullock was easy to find. He was over at the dessert table picking his fork through a slice of cheesecake, watching us. He nodded to me and I inclined my head slightly in response. He was fighting a smile.

My eyes slipped closed and we danced together, a warmth overwhelming my senses. I squeezed her to me for a moment, and she raised her eyes to mine. I moved away to look at her. It...it had been a while since we were this close. I could smell her natural perfume of good paper mixed with something else that smelled expensive and like vanilla. The saxophones were still going off, and I caught a bit of the lyrics as I stared at her like her pupils were the barrels of a gun. 

“Is it a crime…? Is it a crime? That I still want you…”   
I remembered reading in This Side of Paradise, when Amory starts to imagine a conversation in his head, and he says that he doesn’t want to repeat his innocence, he wants the experience of losing it again. 

The way Abigail held onto me with light hands, she felt like how my time as Robin did. Something I didn’t deserve to happen to me, but it happened anyway, and whether it really was friendship or guilt or penance or...something else that had me coming back and coming back, I was completely and totally fine with it lasting. 

I don’t want to repeat my time as Robin, but small glimpses of that life, like dancing with a nice girl...I’ll take as many of those as I can get. 

The time I’ve known her, Gail’s existed halfway between a mystery and a well-read book, dog-eared but every once in a while when she came back into my life, I still found something new. I had no idea if Abigail Byron was even her real name, and that alone could make her dangerous. I can hear Bruce sometimes when I talk to her, lecturing me about-

She leaned closer, stopping me mid-thought and came up on her toes to press her forehead to mine. It was a split second. It reminded me of the horror back in my firehouse when she’d reached for me in her sleep. She raised a hand to touch my branded cheek, her fingertips just below my lower eyelashes...My breath caught in my throat. Jesus…

“I can’t give you more than that, but surely you want me back…” The song was fading out. “Is it a crime?” 

I was about to say something, but I never got to tell her. Over her shoulder, I’d spied the entrance to the ballroom and a few men were talking with the police guards, but the one in front made my skin crawl. I froze. I’d seen him before, but he appeared drastically different from his picture in Barb’s database. Gail whispered “what is it?” to me, following my gaze and clutching me tighter by the hand when she saw who I was looking at. She squeaked, “Jason-” 

I grabbed her hard by the arm to get her to focus, I stood closer to her to discreetly pass her one of my handguns. I said hastily under my breath, “Listen to me, you go to the upper level where you found me and hide under the table. Anyone who looks under the apron and it isn’t me, you shoot them in the face. Do you understand?” She nodded, her eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Good, go- quickly!” 

“Be careful,” She said, squeezing my hand before kicking off her heels and jogging to the curtains. 

A short bolt of relief went through me before I tapped my earpiece and took the other gun in my holster and the knife from my sleeve into my hands. “Dick, Alberto Falcone is at the main entrance, get your-”

………

“-ass in gear,” Dick almost dropped his drink as Jason’s voice growled through his own earpiece, and looking across the table at Lucius, he’d heard it too. Lucius stood up immediately, disappearing into the crowd towards the board members and some of the mothers and fathers who were sitting nearby. 

Dick knew that Fox would get them all to a panic room, including the ones on the dance floor. He loosened his tie, heading towards the curtains to the restricted level where he could put his mask on and take his tux off, revealing his other suit - but he didn’t get there. 

Gunfire ripped through the air, hunks of the stone ceiling raining down on the benefactors, and there suddenly everyone was crouching, tightening together and Dick was trapped in a corner of the room, screaming ringing his ears.

Once the noise of gunfire and screaming died down, a rasping, hoarse voice that made every hair on Dick’s neck stand on end and there was a consensual shiver that went through the crowd as Alberto spoke lowly, “Happy Summer Solstice, everyone!” 

Dick readied a wing-ding behind his back as the people made a path up the middle, and out appeared a black-haired scrawny man in a blazer, a white button-down, black slacks and holding a black assault rifle that looked too big for his arms. He was flanked by two beefier men on either side with similar weapons. The scrawny man had white cheeks so hollow he almost looked like a skull, blue sunglasses, and he hunched over when he stood still, his hands shaking on the rifle. 

Dick caught sight of Tim, he and Gordon were protectively standing in front of Barbara, who had a tablet on her lap and glancing around the room. In a few minutes, Wayne Tower’s defensive systems will come online. She just needed time. 

Lucius moved past the people at the edge of the crowd and came to stand calmly before Alberto. “What is it you want, Mr. Falcone?” 

Dick couldn’t find Jason anywhere in the room, and it lit fire to his nerves; he sunk down and made his way through the onlookers, trying to get to the curtains to the upper level.

“Why, you, Mr. Fox,” Alberto cooed with a yellow smile, “You’re going to find me the Red Hood, Robin, Nightwing, whoever else is at this fine venue that you’re working with,” He glared around, “Oh, and your scholarship winner.” 

Dick froze, staring through the forest of legs to the ones he knew belonged to Fox and Alberto; he trusted Lucius, but Falcone wouldn’t hesitate to order his son to blow this entire thing sky-high...His eyes found the board of directors who didn’t make it to the panic room...Maybe, maybe not, he thought. The board hated Lucius. Falcone could still bribe them to put pressure on Lucius if this didn’t work.

“Let these people go first,” Lucius bargained smoothly, gesturing to everyone around him. 

“Oh, my apologies,” Alberto waved a hand, a grin spanning his face, “Yes, I’m not after them. That’d be a waste…” He cleared his throat nervously, “A-Anybody who doesn’t want to be part of the - er...fun in approximately,” Alberto checked his watch, which loosely hung from his thin wrist, “-six minutes, leave now.” 

When nobody moved, thinking he wasn’t serious, he fired his weapon again into the air and the people jumped to action, parents grabbing children and friends huddling together on their way out. Lucius and Alberto refused to take their eyes off each other as they went, and Dick finally got to the curtain amidst the commotion. 

Behind it, Jason was fastening a strange-looking metal gauntlet to each arm and already had a kevlar vest on under his uniform. He didn’t have his tactical hood, but he did have the hood on his jacket thrown over his unkempt hair, a few white strands hanging in his eyes. He glanced at Dick as he pressed a button on the gauntlet, and serrated black spikes on the outers of the forearms poked out. He pressed it again, and the spikes sunk back in. Dick remembered for a second that his brother’s whole point in coming here was to atone for what he’d done on Halloween. A faint smile curled his lip. Jason was committed.

“What’s the gameplan?” His question also reminded Dick that Jason spent a night giving orders to an entire army of militia; him asking Dick for orders had a weird feeling to it.

“‘Berto wants to see us,” Dick said, shrugging as he dragged out a compartment drawer in the wall and taking out an extra grappler, “I say we don’t disappoint him.” 

Jason was spinning his handguns on his fingers like an old western cowboy, the glint of the metal shining beside that of his teeth as he grinned. “Works for me.” 

 

………………………………..

Outside the curtains, the crowd got thinner and thinner until all that was left was Alberto, the two men that’d walked in with him earlier, and a group of five or six more thugs that had just come in on one side of the room guarding the only exit, and Gordon, Bullock, Tim, and Lucius Fox with their backs to the windows. In the stampede of the innocents leaving, Tim had shifted Barbara under a table where the tablecloths would hide her. But her efforts to bring reinforcements had been in vain. The defensive systems built into the infrastructure of Wayne Tower hadn’t come on. They've been sabotaged.

But that didn’t mean the cavalry wasn’t mustering behind the curtains. 

Alberto hadn’t stopped fidgeting, shaking his head almost violently. Even his own men were regarding him with a degree of suspicion. The Commissioner decided to focus on this. 

“Son, it’s not too late to give this all up. You haven’t hurt anybody,” He hazarded a step closer, but in that second, the youngest Falcone turned his gun to Gordon. 

“You back up!” Alberto threatened, a wild look in his eye. “I want who I asked for, and if I don’t get who I want, I’ll blow you all to pieces!” 

“Okay, okay, look, I’m backing off,” Jim said, his hands up and he stepped away. “Tell me what you're planning and we’ll give you who you want.” 

Tim peered at Jim out of his peripheral vision, a bead of sweat running from his temple to his cheekbone. He tried to signal Bullock, who stood close to him. 

“What’re you doing, junior? You tryin’ somethin’?!” One of Falcone’s men said, grabbing Tim by the collar and driving him down as the thug’s knee came up into his gut. 

Tim coughed, heaving over; Bullock moved forward to help him, but the muzzle of a gun to his throat changed his mind. Alberto laughed a low throaty noise, pushing his gun further into the cop’s neck, “I think we’ll start with you-” 

“NO!” 

Gunfire erupted from above the dance floor towards the Falcone men- Alberto ducked and covered his head in a reflex as his men return-fired up to the top level, the shooter ducking behind the table that had been turned on its side to act as a cover. When their clips ran out of ammo, Alberto straightened and roared up there, “Who are you?!” 

But he never got an answer, because Jason came bolting from the curtains in a flash of red and gray and Dick a solid streak of blue. Guns blazing, Jason nailed the first guy he got to in a spray of red on the marble and then caught sight of Alberto. Dick threw himself at two others, and Tim moved to help him. 

Gordon took down one of the men by himself by driving his knee into the man’s nose, barking to Bullock, “Get Barbara out of here!” 

Detective Harvey Bullock, a cop pushing fifty, turned on his heel and ran his hardest towards the table, just as he heard the sound of rotors.

………………………...

When I heard the sounds of a rapidly- approaching helicopter, I didn’t have time to think. I knew Abigail’s position on the upper level would be the primary target for at least the next ten minutes, so I had to eliminate Alberto. 

I could hear the helicopter coming up the side of the building, like a tornado was scaling the skyscraper. I pushed my gun into the eyes of a Falcone guy trying to stop me from getting to their boss, mashing the trigger and blowing his brains out before my hands found Alberto. I dropped my guns, picked up the little man in my arms and carried his ass over to about a foot away from the windows. I spun so my back was to them and waited as Alberto struggled. He knew what I was about to do. I waited a moment.Till the helicopter got loud enough to make my eardrums shake, and then I wrapped both arms around him, belly-to-belly. I wrung his back by driving my fists into his back. I tightened my entire body, looked him dead in his eyes and grinned. “Name’s Jason, asshole.” 

I crouched and heaved him far behind me, stretching my body till I’m on my toes, my arms and my back pushing hard, his feet flying over his head, in a suplex through the windows, and as the helicopter came up-

I covered my face with my arm against the spray of I-don’t-wanna-know, bloodlust and anxiety throwing every nerve in my body into the fire. The helicopter leveled with the room, blowing my hood off and wicking the air I was breathing from my mouth; it turned to the side and from the cargo compartment, I caught the sloped barrel of a rocket launcher. 

“EVERYBODY DOWN!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as I heard the fsssht of an RPG firing, hitting the deck as it zoomed overhead, inches from my head, and it slammed into the large arches above the entrance, marble raining down onto the floor in loud cracks. 

A hunk of marble just missed Tim as he was grappling with a bigger guy while Gordon was choking him out with a foot braced against the man’s back; Bullock had just made it to Barbara’s table, taking her up in his arms. I didn’t see Dick until he peeked out from behind a table, only to duck back down again. 

I grabbed my zipkick and hooked the edge of Dick’s table, before the retractor kicked in, sliding me across the floor. He caught my arm, tugging me with him. “Any ideas?” 

My chest was heaving with the tough breaths, my arms and legs stiff. I looked around desperately, spying Tim’s staff poking out from his pantleg. Hmm…I yelled over the wind and minigun fire that was tearing up the stage in the room, “One...Cover me!” 

I ducked low to the ground as I pulled a grenade from my belt. This wasn’t a flash grenade, it was the real deal; I borrowed the grappler Dick had stashed into his belt with fumbling fingers, swearing under my breath as I got my small duck tape out of my jacket, winding the tape around the grenade and the handle of the grappler. I glared back towards the others while I did this, and my heart leapt to my throat; Bullock was on the ground, but his legs below the knees were gone- bloody blackened stumps, and Barbara held herself over him, shielding him with her body with tear streaks down her face as glass fell onto them. 

I almost forgot I held a live grenade in my hand, and I almost forgot I had to make it count, or everyone here dies because I wasn’t quick enough. 

I nudged Dick to get down and stay put. I dove out from behind the table, running towards the minigunner before pulling the pin, standing above the level of the barricade and firing the grappler at the minigunner, and when it stuck, I let go of the handle attached to the grenade…I shouted to Robin, “BULLET SHIELD!” 

I turned, still running and caught the staff that he threw to me, scrambling to hit the button as the grenade went off, only managing to open the shield almost too late.

There was a deafening bang that made everything hurt for a second, and then it all went black.

When I came to, eyelashes fluttering and my head feeling like a horse had kicked it, I tried to look at the helicopter, but all I saw was dark blue night and Gotham white lights. I’d done it. 

My vision was blurry as all hell, like trying to see through murky water. 

When I tried peering back towards the room, all I saw a red mass going towards me and when it finally clarified, Abigail in her torn red dress was crouching over me trying to shake me awake. 

She was saying something, but I only caught the end of her sentence when my hearing came back. “...out of control, we need to move. C’mon!” 

I sat up, started to say that I was fine and to stop fussing, but when I looked at her, I saw a big suited man briskly walking at us. Big guy, talking seven-feet-tall, muscles ripping the seams of his overcoat and wearing an expression that I wanted to cut off his face. On the ground near him, Tim was grimacing and holding his arm, which was bent at a sickening angle. 

The big man was still wearing that expression, and I knew what it meant: he thought he could break me, too. No chance. 

“Run,” I told Abigail, but she didn’t, and I didn’t have time to make her. I got in front of her and stared up at the man, who sneered down at me. 

Every part of me ached, and I certainly couldn’t do another suplex on this guy, nor could my hands get to my guns fast enough to beat his to my throat. If I hadn’t used the serum earlier, I’d be a dead man. I know that now. But I can’t let him hurt anybody. I have to have enough gas in the tank to kill this clown.   
Then the asshat started talking, “I don’t get why Falcone has so much trouble with you, Hood...seeing as how you’re just another one of Batman’s bitches.” 

Mother fu-My fist slammed into his face, the other hand flying to his collar to hoist myself up and bracing a leg over his shoulder to bring my fist down again and again onto his cheekbone. He teetered around, trying to grab my jacket and my leg to get me down, but there was no getting me off him. I was throwing fists, elbows, kneeing him in the face with the other leg, until he finally had me by the top of the shoulder with one big hand pinning me to the ground with such force that the marble cracked under me and I tasted blood in my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue.

After holding me there with his foot while I punched his ankle, his leg; he wiped the blood off his face and then picked me up by my collar. He growled in my face, “Scream for me, bitch.” 

I replied by spitting saliva and blood in his eyes, but before he could nail me into the ground again, he screeched in pain, and my heart stopped when I saw Abigail sticking a knife into the man’s leg. He glared at her like she was a rat in his path, and kicked her square in the chest. She fell, stepping back and I watched in muted horror as she stumbled, falling from the window and catching herself by the fingertips on the floor. 

I squirmed desperately in his grip but he was stronger than I was in almost complete exhaustion; the air I was gasping, the punches to his forearm and wrist that must’ve felt like toddler kicks to him, I had her name stuck in my throat, but I was losing, too far away from his body to get away. He moved to the edge of the floor, where Abigail was crying and holding onto the ledge for dear life. He stepped on her fingers, cracking sounded as he broke them. When he lifted his foot, she fell and she screamed when I did. 

Gunfire sounded, bullets punching holes through his forearm and he dropped me; I didn’t see who saved me, but I’d thank ’em later if I survived this, I kicked off the man’s chest and dove after Abigail without thinking, without breathing, without a grappling hook…

I streamlined my body, holding my hands at my sides and becoming a missile towards her; she was screaming, and I remembered her fear of heights, her asthma- I got close enough, holding out my hands and catching her hard against my chest; she saw my face above hers for a moment, her eyes full of tears. I managed a smirk before hugging her to my chest and she wrapped her arms around me. I knew there was a gargoyle below us, and when I found it, I angled our bodies to get us closer to the wall. 

I braced myself for the pain, hitting the button on my gauntlet for the spikes to poke out. This was gonna hurt. I dug the spikes into the wall, holding onto Abigail tight with the other arm, and the recoil of our bodies nearly broke my elbow had the armor not reinforced the joint; sparks flew from the wall, along with sharp jolts of pain up and down the nerves; I cried out, driving them in harder against the pain, and we slowed, just ten feet above the stone gargoyle jutting out from the side of Wayne Tower. I held us there, my bicep straining to hold us both after all the abuse I put my body through tonight. I stared at her, “You okay?” 

She was clutching handfuls of my shirt with broken fingers, so firm that I knew it hurt like hell to hold on and I knew if I let go of her, she’d be dead. She had her eyes open, and gasped, jerking at the sight

“Hey, hey, don’t look down,” I pleaded, shifting her weight onto my hip to get a better grip on her. “Look at me, okay?” 

Then the spikes slipped, hanging onto the groove I’d made in the wall by a few inches. I reflexively clenched her to me. Okay, I had to count on a good ankle and an ankle that’s been broken and re-broken too many times to land. I didn’t have time to ponder if they’d hold, I lost the hold and we fell the short distance to the gargoyle, but my ankle didn’t hold, rolling and she fell through my arms, but I dropped to the stone shoulder, my head right next to the statue’s neck. I caught her wrist. 

My arm was already mostly screwed from slowing our descent. I held on, by God I held on. She was crying, using both hands to hold mine and blood ran from the splintered bone that poked through the skin, slicking our hands and making my grip on her slipperier. I begged her, “Listen to me, just focus on me - hey, don't look down. Look right here. Right in my eyes.” 

Her words came out in pants and wheezes, “Please, Jay, don't you let go! Don't let me fall, oh my God-”

Did she seriously think I’d drop her? “You're not going to fall, G-”

“You're gonna let me fall, please-”

“I'm not letting you go, dammit!” I growled, relaxing my arm as much as I could to prepare for what I needed to do next, “No chance. Gail, listen to me- I need you to grab my neck when I lift you, okay? Can you do that?”

“Jason,” She blinked tears out of her eyes, “I can't-”

“Yes, you can,” I know she couldn't with broken fingers, I was attempting to convince myself that I could do this for her, that I could save her, “You can. Please, trust me.” I was fighting tears now, too. “I’m trusting you, with everything, please trust me right now.”

“Jason,” She said, makeup smeared but I knew from how she saw me, that she did. She trusted me. Abigail trusted me. 

“Just grab my neck,” I made a wild promise out of nowhere, my throat hoarse, “And I swear, on my life, that I'll never let you walk out again, I'll never turn my back on you, I'll never let anyone hurt us again!”

Before she could respond, I belted a strangled cry and heaved, lifting her to wrap both arms around my neck. I let go of her hand and grabbed her waist, using my free arm to push us both away from the edge. 

I dragged us away, digging my heels against the bends in the stone until my shoulder blades met the cold wall of Wayne Tower. Both of us covered in blood and grime and dirt, and we smelled and much. I laid there with her, both of us crying quietly as the wind whipped our hair around. I sobbed “I’m sorry” over and over into her blonde hair, gritty with dirt. I didn't even know who I was apologizing to, or what for, but I didn't care. I grinded my teeth against the noise of crying that wanted to break loose from my mouth, but I just hugged her harder, cradling her to my chest with her draped over me. She was alive. I did it.

But I had her. 

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. And for the first time, I was thankful to be alive.


	35. While the Whole Wide World is Fast Asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Abigail return to the firehouse to recover.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,

**While the whole wide world is fast asleep** ,

You lie awake and think about the girl

And never, ever think of counting sheep.”

  * Frank Sinatra, “In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning”



………………………….

 

Dick used a grappler to free-climb his way down Wayne Tower to rescue Abigail and I, but once we were taken back to the ballroom, we had to move and move fast. Unconscious with shock and blood loss, Bullock was being life-flighted to Elliot Memorial, and Gordon went with him, gray-eyed and solemn. He probably thought it was his fault. We hadn’t heard on Bullock’s condition since they left. Gordon’s wrong. Bullock was a good man, but if he died tonight...it’d be my fault, not his. 

 

In the meantime, Tim needed his arm splinted, Abigail’s hands needed wrapped up, and the five of us needed somewhere safe to recover and regroup. Barbara offered the Clocktower, but I reminded her that an ex-Arkham Knight militia man had already gone to Falcone with hopes of getting to me. Alejandro. Falcone knew about the place. Dick suggested his place in Bludhaven, but that was out of the question, too. If anyone decided to finish Bullock off and kill Gordon, we needed to be ready to move. Can’t do that from a whole other city away. 

 

In the end, we decided to split up. Barbara would go with Tim to his apartment before joining Gordon at the hospital, Dick would stay with Lucius, and I would take Abigail back to my firehouse.  Communication while we recover would be key. 

 

…………………………………………………………….

 

“Why is there blood all over the floor?” Gail asked me, a look of concern crossing her face as I held the door open for her to walk through. I checked the alley outside before bolting the door behind us. My stomach did flips seeing the brown-red smears where I'd dragged myself across the place for the serum. 

 

“Eh, haven’t had the chance to clean,” I waved her off, “We should probably get those fingers splinted. There’s a stool in my bathroom, go sit there while I get the stuff.” 

 

She nodded, walking off and heading upstairs. I peeled off my jacket, throwing it over my workbench before I unfastened my armor, my gauntlets. I took a breather, running a hand through my matted hair and forcing my fingers through the tangles. I then followed her up to the top level of my firehouse. 

 

Before I joined her, I stopped in my bedroom to the weapons cache-turned-dresser. I grabbed her a sweatshirt and a pair of lounge pants that she’d likely have to triple-knot to stay on her hips, adding a pair of socks she’d have to roll over. I also threw the medicine duffel I kept for wounds and injuries over my shoulder, a spare tactical hood under my arm, and carried everything to where she was in the bathroom. She was holding her hands to her chest when I walked in, a gloomy gaze on them. She glanced up at me as I set the duffel on the counter along with the clothes. 

 

“Found you something more comfortable to wear,” I muttered, flicking my hair out of my face before sliding on the hood. 

 

“What d’you need that for?” She asked, her eyebrows coming together. 

 

I tapped the side of the hood, the display flashing once until detective vision came on and all I saw of her was her bones, the pulsating white mass in her chest I knew was her heart, and the expanding and contracting of her lungs. Her heart was still jittery, probably aftermath from tonight. 

 

“X-ray built in,” I said, before holding my hands out palms-up, “Lemme see your hands.” 

 

She hesitated and I had a really good guess as to why. What happened on that gargoyle...I don’t know exactly what happened...but I’m not sure I want to pretend it never happened. For now, that seemed to be what she wanted to do. And I’d respect that. She put her hands in mine and I squinted close. 

 

From what I could tell, it was the pointer, middle and ring finger on the left hand, and the pointer and middle on the right. Not completely shattered, she’ll recover dexterity. As gently as I could, I turned her hand to the side and tested the range of motion. She gritted her teeth and let out a small grunt. 

 

“Good news, you keep the splints on them - you’ll be fine,” I pushed the hood off again and put it on the counter, unzipping the duffel. “Bad news, I’m gonna have to straighten them out and it’s going to hurt. A lot.” 

 

“Lovely…” She sighed, rubbing her cheek with her forearm. “Just do it.” 

 

“Relax,” I advised, fishing out a handful of metal finger splints,  “And breathe.” 

 

I held the first finger and looked at her, slowly straightening it out. She sucked in a harsh breath through her teeth, and I carefully slipped the finger into a splint. “One down, four more to go.” 

 

“Funny,” She said as I started the second one, “When we met, I was fixing you up...now it’s the other way around.” 

 

I laughed hollowly, “At least you didn’t throw up on the floor like I did.” 

 

“Night’s still young,” She said, wincing as I splinted that finger. Her pain threshold caught me off-guard. “Although... I didn’t eat much at the dinner...don’t have anything in my stomach to throw up. So rest assured, I guess.” 

 

“Are you hungry?” I asked, working on the last finger for the left hand, “...If you want, I can make us something or-” A grumbling from her body answered me.

 

She averted her eyes down, embarrassed, “I suppose I could go for food.” 

 

“Mmhmm.” 

 

The rest of the time it took me to straighten and splint her fingers, I listened to her stomach growl a few other times and then mine decided it would join in. So when I was done and she was changing, I switched out my armored pants for a pair of gray lounge pants and my wife-beater for a ripped cutoff shirt I’d gotten at a thrift store a while back. Pulled my boots off and my socks, until I was barefoot. 

 

I cracked my shoulders as I rolled them, stretching my arms and legs out. I exhausted myself pretty damn good tonight and this’ll help with the soreness I’ll definitely be feeling tomorrow. 

 

I went to the kitchen, at last. I knew I was about a week overdue for a grocery trip, but then again...most of what I ate came in the form of protein shakes, large pans of food I made to last me the week to avoid wasting time cooking every night, and Honey Bunches of Oats with almonds. So when I say I was overdue for a ‘fundamentals’ grocery trip, it meant I was out of all that stuff. I actually had a better stocked kitchen than the rest of the family. 

 

It’s been ages since I made an actual meal...What did she even like? I could always ask her...but I don’t want to not have what she's preferred. It would disappoint her. I massaged the tightness from the back of my neck, looking into my sorry fridge. 

 

I’d have to surprise her and hope. Okay, everybody loves pizza, right? I heard the shower come on. Guess she wanted to clean up. No problem. Buys me more time.

 

After washing my hands up to my elbows (I mean, I did suplex a guy into a helicopter), I cleared out the oven and set it to preheat; thankfully, I had tomatoes to make sauce, pepperoni, and a new bag of mozzarella...I hunted around my kitchen to see what else I could throw on. I could reuse the garlic, the parsley, the cilantro...the peppers, too for toppings. And then I rummaged around for some dough, and came up empty. Greeeeat. I didn’t have enough time to work out some from scratch. 

 

I glared around my kitchen for anything I could substitute, finding an eight-inch baguette. I grinned, I loved French bread pizza. This was gonna be good. I turned on the radio that I had on the windowsill, going through stations until I came to Gotham FM, which did jazz and older music. 

 

A smile crept onto my face. I remembered that massive vinyl collection Gail had, so I turned it up while I got hot on making the sauce, cubing tomatoes with a paring knife. The song that was on was nice and slow, and I found myself swaying. I popped a tomato cube in my mouth while I worked on six garlic cloves...chopped nice and fine. 

 

I tried to use the food processor as quick as I could so I wouldn't drown out the music for too long. I threw the tomato cubes in, popped the top on and pureed those puppies until it became thick. From there, I grabbed a sauce pan and started the real fun. It all starts with the garlic and some butter on low heat, and after roughly half a minute of sautéing, the tomato puree joins the garlic. For the next five minutes, the pan gets to simmer on medium heat while I stir occasionally. Corn flour gets to play a bit later, followed by seasoning, the oregano, parsley...I ran my knife through the cilantro because the smell the herb gives off after you cut into it is to die for. I scraped the cilantro all into my palm and inhaled a big whiff. Oh my gosh,  _ yes.  _ Yes. I do spell cocaine c-i-l-a-n-t-r-o. I tossed that in, along with thyme, rosemary and basil. Yes, yes, yes. Aromatherapy.

 

“It smells  _ amazing _ in here,” I heard from the door and I looked over to see Abigail with wet hair in sweats, smiling at me. 

 

I beckoned her to come here with a hand, “Nuh-uh, you smell this pan.”

 

She padded closer, holding her hair best she could while I wafted the aroma up to her. I, however, detected the scent of my own shampoo on her hair; Head and Shoulders never smelled so good. She closed her eyes, “Jesus, Jason.”

 

“I know,” I was grinning like an idiot, “Making pizza with homemade sauce on a baguette. That good with you?”

 

Gail blinked at me, “On a baguette?”

 

“Yeah, here- stir this,” I said, giving her the whisk while I went to the pantry, “Never have it on French bread before?”

 

She shook her head. “Nope. But I love French bread and pizza, so I'm sure I'll love it.”

 

I was kinda glad that my head was in the pantry so she couldn't see my relief. I found my favorite red chili powder and brought it over. “You like kick in your pizza?”

 

“Yes, please,” She said, holding the whisk to the side so I could sprinkle a good bit in. 

 

Her eyes were distant then, and when I took the whisk from her again to stir everything together, I had a good idea of what was bothering her. “He was like a father to you, wasn't he?” 

 

“Hmmm?” She said, eyebrows shooting up and leaning against my counter. 

 

“Bullock,” The oven beeped when it was up to heat, and I walked to the pantry to grab a metal baking sheet from the top shelf. 

 

I sliced the baguette into halves and placed both on the sheet. Plenty for us. I poured the sauce over them, Gail pitched in, snowing cheese on them from the bag that I'd laid out.

 

“Yeah…” She said quietly, and I noticed the hard set of her jaw, “My real dad was rarely around, he was always too busy…” I could relate. “But Harvey was always there...When my mom wasn't home, I could call him and he'd be there.”

 

“Got a confession to make,” I said after I'd finished placing pepperoni on them and had the baguettes in the oven, “Remember the last time we saw each other...in the parking garage?”

 

Her lips parted, her hands struggling to reseal the cheese bag, “...yeah.”

 

“Shortly after that, I'd asked Bullock for his help…” I told her, taking the bag and doing it for her, ”But not with Falcone...I wanted him to look out for you. Even offered money and the Don alive if that meant he'd keep you safe.”

 

She was pensively silent, debating, as I put everything away, “What did you actually give him?” 

 

“I agreed to hand over Falcone alive,” I admitted, crossing my arms. “He said he’d do it for you, not because of anything I was giving him…” 

 

“Did you plan on keeping that promise?” Her voice was almost silent, and she walked over to hoist herself to sit on the counter. 

 

“Originally? Probably not. I didn’t know how bad it would get, how far Carmine would go to..” I bit my lower lip. “To kill me, to tear Gotham apart, hurt people…”

 

“And now?” She was getting at something, but I didn’t know what. 

 

“Are you asking me to?” I pulled a chair out from the corner of the room, sitting on it backwards. “Because if you are...I don’t think I can let him live after tonight…” 

 

“I’m not asking you to keep it, Jason,” She said finally, raising her eyes to mine. That part of her I didn’t see often, the part of her that I didn’t recognize and knew next to nothing about was in her eyes, her words...She took in an even breath. “I want you to break it.” 

 

Now, this is the difference between me and say, Tim. Tim would cuff her to a chair, get Gordon and get this girl behind bars in three seconds flat. 

 

Me? I stood up, limped to the fridge, and picked out two beers from the back. I smacked the caps off on the edge of the counter, handing her one. She seemed confused until I lifted my beer in a toast. “You got it, sunshine.” 

 

We both drank, our eyes locked. Her splinted fingers barely held the beer, but I could see the hue of her stormy blue eyes through her damp hair, the color of honey. 

 

She drank, craning her neck back and staring up at the ceiling. I raised my eyebrows. When she came up for air, she looked over to the center of the floor in the kitchen, where the absence of anything was noticeably awkward. “Wasn’t there a table here?” 

 

I covered my chagrin with a drink from my beer, “Yeah…”

 

“Where'd it go?” She inquired, genuinely curious. 

 

“I broke it,” I said simply, letting my scarred arms hang over the back of the chair. “We had an argument, and it lost.” 

As if saving me from explaining how I felt when she walked out that night, my phone started ringing in the next room. I stood up, telling her, “Keep an eye on the pizza, I’ll be right back.” 

 

I half-limped, half-jogged to my office, where my beat-up phone was blasting Slayer. I checked the Caller ID...Dick. I answered it, “Hey, any news on Bullock?” 

 

“ _ Yeah, he’s uh…”  _ Dick sounded detached, distant. 

 

“He's what?” I demanded just low enough so Abigail wouldn't hear it.

 

_ “He went into a coma...shock-induced.”  _

 

My lungs deflated, and I realized I'd been holding my breath, my body feeling cold for a moment. “Any chance of…?” 

 

“ _ Recovery?”  _ A heavy exhale on the other end. “ _ Doctors aren’t sure.”  _

 

“Have you told Barb yet?” 

 

“ _ I just got off the phone with Tim,”  _ He paused, “ _ He’s told her by now...But listen, Jay, Tim- he wanted me to ask you something...well, not really ask…”  _

 

“Spit it out,” I said, my chest tight. “What’s he want?” 

 

“ _ It’s about your friend, Abigail,”  _ He was asking cautiously, as well he should, “ _ He said that when you and me were gearing up, Alberto asked for her...you don’t find that a little suspicious?”  _

 

I wiped a hand down my face, letting out a rough, hoarse noise from my throat. “By name? Did he ask for her by name?” 

 

“ _ Tim didn’t say.”  _

 

“‘Course not,” I shrugged. “So what? What is he asking here?” 

 

“ _ He doesn’t think she’s completely removed from this,”  _ Dick didn’t seem too convinced himself. “ _ I mean, we knew she hated the Falcones, you and me talked about that. But Tim thinks that maybe she’s been planted.”  _

 

“Planted?” I repeated, rolling my eyes. “Look, I’ve been around her a lot more than either of you. She has had just about every opportunity imaginable to rat me out to Carmine, and she hasn’t taken it.” 

 

“ _ I’m not sold on the idea either, but I think before you get any closer to her…”  _ He trailed off, and I felt sick. 

 

“Dick, she’s a friend,” I tried to say, but my voice betrayed me by falling an octave.

 

“ _ Jason, you said it yourself that you think she might be hiding something,”  _ There was a pounding sound in the background, like he was walking. “ _ I know she means something to you, but I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think it was in your best interest to check it out.”  _

 

I appreciated him saying that, I really did...but I just finally cleared the air with Abigail. I got her to trust me again, and I made myself trust her again...And all of us had been through enough tonight. I was perfectly fine with her opening up to me on her own time, or not at all. How did all of this go straight to hell this fast? Oh, that’s right...because I just  _ had  _ to bleed out in a parking garage. 

 

“Fine…but I won’t do it. Not me.” 

 

“ _ You want me or Tim to interrogate her _ ?” He actually seemed surprised, the pounding noise stopped. 

 

“Either or. I want to be in the room, but I won’t ask the questions,” I conceded, hating myself a little for agreeing to this. Well, a little more. “And it won’t be tonight.” 

 

“ _ You can’t tell her what’s coming-”  _

 

“I’m not an idiot,” I cut him off, ending the call and shoving the phone into my pocket. 

 

I scratches at the nape of my neck, my hand coming forward to rub my eyes. Hi, my name is Jason Todd. I’m a twenty-something that breaks the law on a regular basis. I’m a mass murderer or a scourge of evil depending on what side of the law you’re on. And I'm an idiot. 

 

I shook my head in spite of myself, my eye catching the notepad stuck to the wall...I'd had a smoke before the event...I reached over once I had a pen, crossed out sixty-two and wrote seven...though my nerves wanted me to throw it all back to zero. I scoffed at myself. I'd been doing oh-so-well...

 

I slowly made my way back to the kitchen, and Gail lifted her head from staring at the oven. “Everything okay?”

 

“...No, actually,” I moved past her to the pantry again to get a pair of oven mitts. 

 

She didn't say anything more until the French bread pizza was out of the oven and resting on the stove to cool a bit before we eat. It was perfect; cheese melted into the bread, permeating the golden crust...and piping hot.

 

“What happened?” Her voice was a whisper, and I knew how the rest of her question was supposed to read.  _ What happened to Harvey? _

 

The others? They might dance around it. But not me. She deserved to know exactly what happened. 

 

“Harvey Bullock’s in a coma,” I said steadily as I plucked up a shaker and drizzled red pepper flakes over my baguette, pretending I couldn't see her face go white. “From the shock.”

 

“My God…” She put her hands over her mouth, turning away from me. And after a few seconds, the softest of crying came from her as she left the room. I heard her walk through the hall and the click of my bathroom door shutting.

 

I put the shaker down, and let my arms fall dumbly to my sides. I can heal wounds, fix cars, feed bellies...but I knew I was useless at relieving emotional pain. I had too much of my own to really help anybody. And if I helped her now, giving her to Tim tomorrow to be thrown under his detective microscope would be a steeper hill of shit to climb out of. 

 

But I couldn't explain it to you if I tried. This girl had stitched me up and had me stripping my secrets bare for her to see. Because I wanted her to understand me. And now that she did, I found myself wanting to understand her. She doesn't trust me with that yet, not the way I have with her. 

 

Regardless, I promised her on that gargoyle that I'd never turn my back on her. I'm a man of my word. 

I stood there for a minute, opening and closing my hands. One foot goes in front of the other until I'm at the bathroom door. I watched my scarred knuckles lift to rap against the door. “Gail?” 

 

“I'm okay,” She didn't sound okay, sniffing like that.

 

“Can I come in?” 

 

“It's not locked.”

 

I turned the knob, pushing the door open gently in case she was sitting behind it. But once I saw her curled up on the floor next to the tub, I came in and closed the door. I took a step and hunkered down to sit beside her. She had her knees brought up to her chest, and had pulled the sweatshirt I'd lent her over her legs. It was so big on her that it hadn't pulled the material tight at all. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and hid her eyes from me like a curtain. 

 

“I'm not going to lie: I suck at comforting people,” I preambled, internally kicking myself at how stupid I was just for saying that, “But I care. About you…” I remembered something, something I should've told her sooner, “You remember the morning after we met?”

 

“When you said I only helped you in hopes of sleeping with you?” She said, clearing her throat. 

 

“Yeah…” Not my nicest moment, “Confession: I only said that because I was protecting you…” She wrinkled her nose, “It was a dick move, I know...but truth is, I was scared, to death, of being anybody’s friend. Especially when that could get them hurt...a six-feet-under kind of hurt.”

 

She looked at me then, staring as I kept my eyes locked on the tile on the wall and went on. “Seeing what I've seen, doing what I've done, enduring what I've endured...it doesn't encourage you to get close with people. The few people I am close with...They're in the same line of work...they don't agree with my methods but they're vigilantes. Same as me.” I idly traced a whipping scar on my arm, “For a while there, I thought Joker beat the humanity out of me...the heart, and just poured anger and hatred into the empty spaces…but it feels like everything is empty.” 

 

“Empty,” She repeated, turning the word over in her mouth, “...but there's so much more to you,” She said, nudging my arm with her elbow, “You know that.”

 

“Sometimes, I wouldn't agree with you,” I admitted, and this felt like confessing my sins to her again, the weight lifting off my shoulders and making me lighter. “But I guess, what I'm trying to say is...The point is, where that view started to change was when... I was bleeding out in this garage, reconciling myself with the oblivion of death yet again…” She became very still then. “And this girl nearly runs me over with her Subaru.”

 

“That's not funny,” She said, though I could tell she was trying not to laugh. 

 

“Zip it, it's my story,” I grouched playfully, smirking myself and starting to talk with my hands, “So this girl nearly makes me roadkill, and then she saves my life. She stitches me up, shares a beer with me and plays Otis Redding…” I sighed. “I haven't even considered myself worthy of saving in years and it takes five minutes for a girl I've never met to do so. You took a chance on me.”

 

“Jason…” She said, smiling with shining eyes. “I-I just did…”

 

“No, you did something amazing,” I corrected automatically, gazing at her hard in her eyes,  “So don't you dare sit there and tell me that it was what any decent person would've done. Because anybody else would've left me there...to rot. You’re a good person, Gail…You're…” I'm gonna butcher this, “You're smart - wicked smart, kinder than most, but you're no pushover...You're someone I wish I would've known sooner.”

 

I had to drive it home, and pray what I’m saying made it to memory. I know how hard it is. “But you’re not the person to blame for what happened, though you’re exactly the type to blame yourself for it. And I know what blaming yourself looks like. I know it pretty damn well. Trust me when I tell you that you did what you could with what you had and nobody blames you for what happened to Bullock.”

 

Seeing her now, after she’s scrubbed off the makeup, I saw what she didn't want anyone to see earlier. A yellowing bruise along her jaw, a small darker one over her nose, and her lips were redder...her top lip was split in the center, and there was a bit of blood. 

 

I touched my finger to it, her eyes on my hands. I checked it, and it  _ was  _ blood. “What happened here?” 

 

She pushed my hand away with a splinted finger, the metal cold. She pressed her lips together in a hard line, the blood from her top lip staining her lower when she did so. “I’m okay…” 

 

“Abigail,” I said, a little firmer and facing her completely, “Who did this to you?” 

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she withdrew her hands back into the sweatshirt. 

 

For some reason, that stung. A lead silence hung in the air. Until I suggested quietly, resting my head against the cool tile wall, “I could take care of them for you...make it look like an accident, or a suicide...Make them suffer or end it quick, your call.” 

 

Gradually, she peeked up at me through her hair and I did the same through the corner of my eye. She asked, “Did you just offer to murder somebody for me?” 

 

“Don't know why you're surprised,” I noted, “I have killed for you, examined dead bodies because you called me, shot people for you, broken arms for you-”

 

“-okay, okay, I follow,” She waved a hand to stop me before she grew serious, “You do a lot for me, and Gotham, without demanding or expecting something in return like some do…” My nerves jittered as she put her hand on my forearm, “Thank you.” 

 

“What're friends for?” Was all I could manage to say, and I hoped she didn't see the goosebumps. 

 

…………..

 

Once she wanted to, I managed to get her to eat three pieces of French bread pizza. She went to bed shortly after that, using her sleeping place on the floor of the dormitories again after I'd given her all the pillows and blankets I had. I couldn't sleep just yet so I decided to shower instead. 

 

After scrubbing the sweat, blood, dirt, grit and whatever else off my marred body, I combed my hair back and paced around in the kitchen a while to smoke. I lifted the huge windows open so the smoke wouldn't carry back to Gail’s asthmatic lungs, and fired a cigarette up. 

 

I had the radio on but with very little volume, and it was playing soft, slow tunes I wished her and me would've slowdanced to instead. If I’m honest and in a good mood, I'd say I like slowdancing. It feels natural. And good. And innocent. Things I've ceased to be.

 

Shirtless and still damp from the shower, the breeze chilled my skin but it didn't bother me. It actually felt kinda nice. 

 

But I couldn't tell if it was this breeze or the final relief of the simple knowledge that everybody I cared for was relatively safe... That she was in the next room, asleep. 

 

Was this what calm felt like? Not when the soldier was done fighting altogether, but when he had finished a great victory in preparation for another battle? Or was it naive and dehumanizing to think that victory at the cost of any life or loss was still victory? Bruce trained me to be a soldier. A soldier is a weapon clothed in ideals, trained to go into battles to kill but return with invisible wounds, then expected to do it all over again. I've fought more than my fair share of battles. I've got a chip in my shoulder shaped like Batman but stings like Joker. But I'm by no means exhausted of this fight. I'll be fighting until Death's door has a goddamn pick-a-number waiting list that takes  _ forever _ to go through. 

 

But I understood the concept of a breather. I held the smoke in my teeth, staring out into early summer Gotham at night and swayed with my hands in my pockets...and waited for my next fight.

 

………

 

_ I had been too close to fail when I did. I was almost certain that I was dreaming a memory; getting into the tank with the Cloudburst ready to detonate was near the top of my list of things to hate myself for. The militiamen that had been assigned to guard my bunker lined up. They were my men. I trained them. And they stood by and watched me destroy Gotham. For a paycheck.   _

 

_ But I knew immediately that this was a nightmare the moment that the dream strayed from what actually happened. One of my men, a white-uniformed medic, stepped out from the end of the line between me and the Cloudburst. I slowed to a stop from my walk, my itchy hands aching for guns. The other men looked to their comrade with concern; they knew the penalty.  _

 

_ “Sir,” The medic sounded nervous, he should be for trying something. “I get that being a soldier means that, at times, making tragic choices that have horrific consequences can be the only option...but there’s no part of this that right.”  _

 

_ A cruel laugh rattled up my throat to be shrouded in the voice-manipulator. “Where did you serve before me?”  _

 

_ “Santa Prisca, sir.”  _

 

_ “If Gotham was Santa Prisca, would you object to setting the whole place on fire?”  _

 

_ He was silent, his hands fists at his sides.  _

 

_ “It’s a trick question,” I stepped closer, until I could see the Arkham Knight helmet in his goggles, “Gotham and Santa Prisca are exactly alike. Full of people that don’t deserve to live. Their business is making others afraid. We’re giving them a taste of their own medicine, compliments of Scarecrow.”  _

 

_ “Really?” He had some nerve, raising his voice, “Everyone in Gotham deserves to die? Look around you, Knight! This is a city that has been drowning in blackness and corruption since it was born, but thanks to Batman and James Gordon this place is so close to morning...And you’re about to plunge it back. Is this what you  _ want?!” 

 

_ I didn’t say anything, but my gut was in knots. He put his hands on my shoulders, shaking me a little. And the dream grew even worse when he used my name. And his voice grew more feminine until I started to recognize it. “JASON, STOP! Look at what you’re doing to him!”  _

 

_ The medic pointed to the side and my jaw fell open in shock, my blood running cold. Bruce, in cape and cowl, lying face-down on the ground in a pool of his own blood. “Is this what you want, Jason? He will kill himself to STOP you! They will all kill themselves to SAVE you!”  _

 

_ When I blinked next, we were surrounded. Dead Barbara. Dead Bruce. Dead Dick. Dead Tim. Dead Abigail. Dead...no...I pushed the medic away and trudged through the bodies to get to him...the red-stained suit, the white gloves on his hands...but the bodies were deepening, up to my knees.  _

 

_ I fought harder, throwing people and screams ripped up my throat, as I was climbing over dunes of corpses to reach the shining gurney on a platform farther away than before. _

 

_ “ALFRED!”  _

 

_ I could see the dark line of his moustache. I was panting, and this helmet was suffocating me. I almost tore it off my face, chucking it as far as I could. But when I caught sight of the environment again, it was the room I was broken. The trays of tools, the blank wall I went insane staring at through black eyes. Only it wasn’t blank now, they were all there...Every one of them, splayed like starfish as they were stuck to the wall with stakes through their wrists like crucifixes. Tears sprang to my eyes, the air rushing out of my lungs.  _

 

_ I weakly fell to my knees, sucking a hot breath in before razing my vocal chords with the roar that erupted from me.  _

 

I knocked someone backward when I shot up out of the nightmare, a strangled shout beating past my lips. Air couldn’t stay in my lungs, I was breathing so hard; Abigail was on the floor by my hammock, getting to her feet again and holding out the water bottle to me again, screwing off the top for me to drink. “Hey, you’re okay - calm down. Just a dream.” 

 

I dumped it over my head instead, feeling like my head was on fire. “G-Gail.” 

 

“Don’t talk,” She smoothed her splinted fingers over my hair, “Breathe.” 

I coughed hoarsely, chugging what was left in the bottle. My eyes were red, raw, puffy, and she frowned, “I heard you screaming…” 

 

“I’m sorry,” I turned my face away from her when the crying started, scraping my palms over my eyes, making them hurt worse. But she didn’t let me; a hand came to my cheek, directing my eyes to hers. I leant into her hand without thinking, and I bit my lip when another wave of crying came. 

 

She took my arm and led me out of the hammock, my feet clumsily hitting the floor. I stumbled, but she caught me, heaving her back to my chest until I stood straight. “There you go, c’mon.” She helped me from my bedroom. 

 

I closed my eyes, coughing as she led me to the bathroom. “Gail, you don’t have to…” 

 

“Shhhh,” She had me sit on the toilet seat, and the tank on the back was ice against my hot skin, stunning me to my sense a little. My breathing had slowed, but it was still fairly fast. She ordered steadily, running some water in the sink, “In through your nose.” 

 

I tried, my lungs threatening to burst. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Stop it, you didn’t do anything wrong,” She said, and I peeked over the counter, seeing her wetting a washcloth under hot water. 

 

“Yes I did,” I insisted, a hand over my eyes. “I ruined it. I destroyed everything I ever wanted to save. I’m everything they all said I w-”

 

“-I  _ know  _ you’re not gonna finish that sentence, so I’ll have to smack you,” She warned, coming to stand in front of me, her legs between my knees. “Jason.” 

 

I lifted my head, and I knew she saw the dark circles under my eyes, the red rims of them; she saw them water. She spread out the washcloth over one hand, and she touched my cheek again. “You may be at fault. But now, I believe you genuinely want to change the place for the better. Because that’s what you’re trying to do for yourself. You’re broken, so much that you can’t imagine what it looked like put together. But you’re worth trying. Okay?” 

 

I swear, on everything I love, that I wished someone would’ve told me that six months ago. 

 

I croaked, “Okay.” 

 

“Close your eyes.” 

 

I did. She cleaned my face with the cloth, the warmth a godsend as she kept my chin still while she moved it all around my cheeks, pushing black hair back from my forehead, my jaw, my nose, and carefully, over my eyes. She was talking to me, saying the same few words over and over. “You’re okay...you’re just fine...you’re safe.” 

 

My breathing finally slowed to a reasonable pace. She migrated down my neck to my shoulder with the cloth, but when I opened my eyes, I focused them on her and didn’t move them. She worked on, covering every inch and every place. She swiped the cloth slowly from one shoulder, over my collarbones, to the other and the hard trapezius muscles on me, the hollows under them. 

 

Back to the sink to reheat the cloth, wring it out and she was at it again, running it over my scarred, ugly chest next. I concealed my discomfort as best I could. She didn’t notice, carefully moving her fingers in the cloth around the raised skin over toned muscle like it was a relief sculpture. She swiped over my abs, inches from my waistband before she brought it up again, curling around both arms all the way to my hands. She used her nail to work the grime from under my own nails. 

 

She rinsed the cloth a final time, before she had me stand. I faced the mirror, staring into my blue-green eyes as she gradually worked over my back. She raised herself up on her tiptoes to massage the back of my neck, and the sensation had me closing my eyes for a moment, exhaling a soft sigh. 

 

Absentmindedly, I bent over to rest my forearms on the sink and opened my eyes again, seeing her proud smirk. A crooked smile crept on my lips as she came to my side, using more pressure and really giving me more of a back massage than a rubdown. 

 

“You’re good at that,” I noted, shutting my eyes again. 

 

“What’re friends for?” She said, echoing what I’d said earlier. She was taking care of me, just as I did her earlier. 

 

She was working on a tight piece of my back on my left side, rolling the heel of her palm over it. I made a low noise, feeling the whole area loosen. 

 

About five minutes passed of just her loosening tight and knotted muscles on my back. When she finished, she threw the washcloth in the laundry basket I had in the corner. I straightened, “I, uh...thank you. For all that.” 

 

She turned the light off and we both left the bathroom. “Anytime. Now, I want you to try to sleep.” 

 

I blinked. “You saw what just happened, right? I’m not sleeping.” 

 

“Please?” She said, and I squinted at her as she puckered out her lower lip, widening her eyes to sad puppy proportions. We held the stare for ten seconds. I knew she was joking about the puppy eyes, that she just wanted me to sleep because she cared. But I did find it hard to say no to her. 

 

“Dammit.” 

 

“Thanks, Jay,” Gail called as I grumbled profanities on my way to my bedroom, scratching the scruff on my face. 

 

I had never wanted to be her friend. And now the mistake was set into stone, and I couldn’t bring myself to chisel it back out. And neither did she. 

  
  
  



	36. The Fear of Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally learn who Abigail Byron truly is.

 

“If you love me let me go

If you love me let me go

‘Cause these words are knives and often leave scars

The fear of falling apart

And truth be told, I never was yours

The fear, **the fear of falling apart** ”

-Panic at the Disco, “This is Gospel”

…………………………………………………………………..

 

When Abigail came to, her hands were painfully behind her back, her wrists in strange handcuffs that she didn’t recognize as being police-issue or crude zipties. A blindfold had been tied over her eyes too tight, and the aching reminded her of high ponytails bound with rubber bands. Her body felt like it did after the only concert she’d ever been to, where she could feel the music pound in her bones; it felt like every nerve was throbbing within her, only this time, it was with panic, not euphoria. The only comfort she could take was that she was still in Jason’s clothes, which smelled like leather, menthol cigarette smoke, and citrus body wash. Her hands hurt, the metal splints squeezing the ends of her fingers hard where they were already sore from biting her fingernails. 

 

“Don’t move,” A male voice to her left cautioned; he sounded young, with the deepness of someone who’s used to whispering. She’d heard it when she was abducted right out of Jason’s firehouse windows, telling her to be quiet or she won’t be hurt. But that wasn’t the only place she had heard that voice. 

 

She also heard breathing closer to her righthand side, someone who was in the room and hadn’t spoken yet. 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” If she was right about her guess, she figured, she was safe. Nothing to worry about. There was still a nervousness about her voice, because there was always the chance she was wrong. “Who are you?” 

 

“That’s not really the important question here,” He said, and the hair on the back of her neck stuck to her skin with sweat. “Who are  _ you, _ really?” 

 

“Bait, probably. Right?” She said flatly, testing her bindings and wincing when the material cut into her wrists. She was so tired of this, “You want the Red Hood. You think taking me from him is a good idea. Which is only half-right...you should be worrying about how to keep him from gutting you once he’s here.” 

 

He didn’t sound afraid. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

 

“Well…” She let out a small laugh, more to release tension than anything. “You’re safer, then. Not safe. Safer.”

 

A different voice spoke then, and though it reverberated like he was older than the first voice, it was lighter. Like he didn’t have a care in the world, or wanted it to seem that way. It was most likely the person she heard breathing earlier. “We’re actually friends of Jason’s, believe it or not.” 

 

“Really?” She shook her head; she knew Jason was part of something bigger. A brotherhood that nobody else could really understand from the outside. That’s the only explanation as to how they know his name. “Me too...or at least, I like to think we’re friends. One question, though: why did you kidnap me? What’s your play?” She put her cards on the table. “You don’t really think I’m  _ that  _ stupid, do you? The reason why nobody else knows who you guys are is because nobody really cares. They’re just glad somebody’s doing the work the GCPD can’t...or at least, that used to be the reason.” 

 

“You know who we are?” The first voice asked, a little concern in his tone. “So, you’re an ex-criminal.”

 

“Oh sweetheart,” There was a dangerously soft edge to her steady voice, and her blindfolded gaze focused on the direction of the first man who spoke, “Robin, can I call you Robin? Let me give you some advice. Do yourself a favor: don’t play deduction games with me. You’ll lose.” 

 

Breaking the short silence that followed was the loud banging of double doors being kicked open, a struggle and a sudden whoosh of Jason’s scent coming to Abigail’s nose. He was here. She fought against her restraints harder, grinding her teeth at the pain. She had to get loose. There was a struggle, the smack of someone hitting the floor, grunts and a short shout. 

 

“Where is she?!” It was him, Jason. Abigail’s heart leapt to her throat. He didn’t see her. How could he not see her? How far was he? All these questions swam in her head. 

 

“Jason, stand down!” The second voice, the cooler one. There was a choking sound, but she knew better.

 

She gathered air in herself, let it fill her up to say three words she hoped would snap him out of his anger, “Jason, stop it!” 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

I froze, almost dropping Tim on his ass from where I held him by his throat.  Dick dropped his arms on me. I slowly lowered him to his feet, turning to see a spotlight shining a small circle on the warehouse floor. A chair was placed there, and on the chair was Abigail, her hands cuffed behind her back. A black blindfold was over her eyes, probably because my brothers were in street clothes and maskless. The secret identity thing. 

 

I immediately abandoned all intention of maiming Tim to check her over murderously for any signs that he'd hurt her. Her wrists were raw...I gritted my teeth. I found nothing beyond what’d been there before she came to the firehouse. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“No,” She said, and I heard the sound of wheels, unable to believe that the source would be in on this. Gail twitched her head around, unable to see past the blindfold and on edge with every little noise. Like Tim’s footsteps, and Oracle’s wheelchair.

 

“She didn't fight,” Barbara said, as if that was supposed to make me forgive them, “Once we told her why this needed to happen, and who we were, she came willingly.”

 

“Then why is she cuffed to a chair?” I demanded, hands on my hips. 

 

She had changed, into a pair of shorts and a royal purple tank top, but her hair was still over her shoulders as it'd been for the charity event, and her glasses were gone. 

 

“Precaution,” Tim answered, and as I turned around, I saw him painfully adjusting the sling on his arm from where I’d shifted it. He was wearing a tank top, board shorts and sneakers, and it surprised me when I realized that I don't think I've ever seen him out of the uniform. And that should tell you all you need to know about Tim Drake, “She had a gun on her person, and she tried to use it.”

 

“A couple of guys come at you under the cover of darkness,” Abigail was irritated, her eyebrows shifting under the cloth and her nose wrinkled, “See if a bullet to the face is the least of it, especially in Gotham.”

 

I glared from person to person, still trying to make sense of this. I had told them that last night wouldn’t work, so they do it the next day? I don’t know what’s screwing with me worse: Tim’s impatience to be right, or my general bad luck. Dick seemed the most reluctant participant, seeing the argument Tim and Babs made, but hating the look on my face anyways. Finally, my eyes fell to Gail’s apologetically, “They told you why you're here?” 

 

“They want me to talk,” She sighed, frowning, but after a moment, she shrugged, “Or at least that's what I've been led to assume.”

 

“Gail, you worked hard to keep this from me and everybody else,” I didn't like asking this, my stomach twisted,  “I’ve been under the impression so far that it’s for a good reason. Are you comfortable telling us?”

 

“I've been running from my real identity for a long time, Jason,” She said, a sad smile on her face. “It’s time I stopped running and  confessed my sins. Plus, you're the good guys, right?” 

 

Her sarcasm was amazing, considering the situation.

 

“We are the good guys,” Dick reassured, and I was glad he was here. He looked awful, tired eyes but he never acted like he didn't want to be here. He always wanted a piece of the action. He wanted to play the game, never spectate, and not only that, he wanted to be the best.

 

“Uncuff her,” I said over my shoulder, and for once, Tim didn't argue. He stepped forward and freed her, taking the cuffs with him. I added, moving to Gail’s chair,“The blindfold is coming off too.” 

 

“No.” Tim got between me and her, “We can’t trust her yet.” 

 

I did my best not to deck him. My fists clenched anyway until my knuckles were white, the aching in my hands weakening the joints. “The blindfold comes  _ off. _ She had so many opportunities to give me up to the enemy, and she didn’t.” 

 

“I could have,” Gail pointed out, “But if you want a word out of me, it comes off first. Besides...it’s giving me a headache.” 

 

I bent over, my breath fluttering her hair as I untied her blindfold and gently pulled it from her face. Her eyes fell on me, and I whispered, hoping my smile was convincing, “Hey, sunshine.”

 

“Hi, mystery man.” She didn't buy the smile, but returned it anyways. 

 

She rubbed her wrists, pensively staring at her lap. Her finger splints shone brightly in the lights of the warehouse. She lifted her gaze after a moment, the corner of her mouth turning upwards, “You know, I'd always wanted to meet you all...shame it couldn't be under better circumstances.” She raised a finger, pointing to Tim, “Robin.” To Dick. “Nightwing.” To Barbara, she squinted. “You're who I spoke to on the phone when I patched up Jason…”

 

Babs nodded, and I watched this whole introduction with a bit of relief. Gail took this better to than I'd hoped. Tim bristled at being called ‘Robin’ for some reason I can only imagine as being related to the fact that Batman was no longer here, and maybe being addressed alone was alien to him. He had a mask on, I noticed, which I found silly until I remembered the . Dick grinned, glancing at me. I backed up until I could lean against the warehouse wall, taking some weight off my bad ankle, which had started a dull, annoying ache. 

 

“Well,” She began, sighing. She was preparing herself, I realized. For throwing however many years’ worth of hiding down the drain. She stayed sitting. 

 

“Let's start at the beginning…” Abigail Byron took her last breath, and became someone else entirely as she started her confession. 

 

“My name…” She seemed to taste the words, and even as she said them, I knew they didn’t feel right in her mouth. Stale with disuse, “My real name is Wednesday...Wednesday Winters. I was born December 21st, on a Wednesday, to Juniper “June” Day-Winters, and Gabriel Winters, editor of the  _ Gotham Gazette.” _

 

Gabe. The guy I roughed up at the  _ Gazette  _ when I took Falcone's eye out. He had told me that his daughter hated him... But I only partially registered that connection. I was watching how her face grew gaunt as her eyes came to my own, as if pleading with me to believe her. 

 

“My mother was everything I told you she was, Jason. Kind, honest, tough, and above all, brave,” I wanted to tell her I believed her, but I didn’t want to interrupt, “Because despite her background, her family, she worked hard to take a tough job in an even tougher city. She became a cop under Gillian Loeb, who didn't care that her brother was a psychotic killer for the Falcone family. To Loeb, she was a way to control him and strengthen ties with the Roman.” Tim stiffened, and she nodded grimly, her stormy eyes darker, “Yes. My uncle is the Calendar Man, but I never had any relationship with him because my mother severed all ties when she found out she was pregnant with me.”

 

“You've never spoken with him?” Tim asked her, his heavy brows furrowed. 

 

“Never,” She shook her head, her tone bitter. “I've seen him, but there's always glass between us. He knows I exist. I know he does. But he has never come for me...I suspect because there isn't a holiday to give him an excuse to visit his niece.” 

 

“When I was five, my parents divorced, as my father was never around and my mom was beginning to think he cared more about the  _ Gazette  _ than me,” The hands she’d laid on her lap curled, but the metal splints prevented it, and she winced as she struggled, “She was right. He apparently preferred contributing money for child support rather than time into raising me, so that was the arrangement. For some reason, though, he always insisted upon visiting hours.”

 

This was a sore spot for her, and I wanted to turn away, sink into the shadows of the warehouse so she couldn't see in my face just how much I understood having a father that was never around because something else was apparently more important. Before he bit it, mine was in and out of jail most of the time for drug possession, larceny, fraud, assault - you name it. I understood deadbeat dads. 

 

“It was about the same time Gordon became Commissioner that background checks were conducted on every officer,” Her gaze moved to Gordon’s daughter, who listened with interest disguised as suspicion, “He confronted my mother's peculiarity regarding her clean record despite her connections with a serial killer. My mother told him that she had had no contact with my uncle for years and that her two priorities were the job and me. Gordon sympathized with her, I imagine because of you, Barbara. He had offered help whenever she needed it. He and Harvey Bullock both. For years up until I was thirteen, they sometimes drove me from school in the squad car.”

 

“He...never told me about that,” Barb said slowly, her hands fiddling with a strand of her red hair absentmindedly. 

 

Gail managed a half-smile. “He told me all about you. Hardly shut up about you. It’s a shame we never met as kids. You sounded brilliant.” She folded her hands under her thighs and sat on them - I knew - to keep them from shaking as she asked, “I'm not sure if this is why he kept us separate but I’m fairly sure it's because of the connection. My family and the Falcones, Calendar Man. Didn't want you getting entangled with that.”

 

Barb and I shared a knowing glance. If only you knew what she got up to in her younger years, sunshine. She said to Gail, “Trust me, there wasn't much he could've done to stop me getting entangled.”

 

“Go on, Wednesday,” Tim insisted, but her eyes snapped to him fast at the mention of her birth name. 

 

“Robin,” She was staring him down, “I'm going to ask this once. D _ on't  _ call me that. It's Abigail.” 

 

He paused for a beat, “Fine. Continue.”

 

She broke the stare, rattling her head. Her hair bounced and grew shaggier. I knew the hard part of her story started here, “When I was eleven, I lost my mother...she had started investigating a body dropped into Gotham Bay maybe three months earlier that she believed was a mob killing. I didn't learn until I was sixteen that the body was Louis Mendez, her first partner who stopped coming by when I turned ten.” 

 

I remembered her talking about that guy. She went on, “I learned quickly that what she was investigating was something you just didn't do in Gotham. She was trying to catch Carmine Falcone in the act, something a handful of rookie detectives had died doing. Many people tried to deter her, Gordon even ordered her to take a leave of absence to cool her head, and she used the time off to continue the investigation on her own.”

 

“She disobeyed orders,” Dick didn't sound like he was condemning June Winters, just clarifying. 

 

Gail picked up on that. “Wouldn't have been the first time she'd solved a case she wasn't exactly supposed to be investigating. Gordon assigned Bullock to keep an eye on her and me both. She was too close to the case.” She sighed. “Later, I found out that Falcone had her brother under his payroll and was using his homicidal tendencies to exterminate his political opponents, along with anyone who opposed him or tried to expose him. She was trying to free Julian from the hold Falcone had on him.”

 

That tied in with what Gordon said days ago about Calendar Man and Zsasz having handlers...

 

“She did it for her family,” Tim said, “Even if it would come at some cost, she didn't want Falcone exploiting Julian.”

 

Gail nodded. “He was supposed to remain in Arkham. Not sure I buy it, but I'd heard he was making actual progress when Carmine broke him out.” 

 

“Now, I'm sure you've noticed that I've been telling you a lot of information that I only learned after the fact…” She inhaled a jagged breath, and a crease formed between her eyebrows. “If I'd known at the time, if I’d had just paid attention when I had the chance - I could've taken steps to prevent everything…”

 

“You were eleven, there wasn't anything you could've done,” Tim said, frowning. 

 

The look she gave him worried me. She peered up at him, the whites of her eyes making the dark circles under them more pronounced. Like she was saying,  _ You have no idea what I could've done.  _

 

And then she started to explain it, “I’d started sneaking into my mom’s squad car at the time. I had been homeschooled most of my life, so she was used to me riding around in there anyways. But she didn't like me tagging along when she went on patrol.” I could hear her holding back tears in her voice because it deepened, dropping an octave as it did. “She felt like it'd make me want to be a cop. She'd made me promise, you see, after Louis was killed, not to be one. Ever. A ten year old’s promise.”

 

“She wanted to protect you,” Barbara said softly, her baby blues full of empathy. 

 

I remembered that Gordon had made her promise the same thing. That's why she became Batgirl in the first place. Because he forbid her to be a cop. Maybe that why Gail studied ethics and political philosophy. To help the world in a different way than her mom. By giving it ways to understand it. Alternatives to going through life with questions. Just like cops gave people a safe-ish society to live in. 

 

“I know,” She forced a smile onto her lips, “It wasn't long before something happened that molded that promise into the center stone of my life. My mom came home the night before she died crying. I asked her what was wrong, brought her tissues, everything...being a good daughter. She said she wasn't sad, she was happy. Trying to reassure me, of course. She hugged me tight, and didn't let me go for a while. She told me to be a good girl because soon, I could go to public school and make friends…” 

 

Oh sunshine...My heart was in my throat. She'd never had friends growing up either. Real friends. Because school was too dangerous in Gotham. Running the risk of drug dealers selling, criminals taking hostages off the playgrounds, assemblies becoming shooting galleries…When we were kids, I was in Crime Alley stealing car parts and she was in a house all by herself. I needed a home and she needed a friend. And now...it's reversed.

 

“Of course, all of crime in Gotham doesn't stop because Don Carmine Falcone dies. Doesn't make the schools any safer,” She shrugged, “But it didn't stop me from being excited. She said tomorrow she was gonna make everything good for us. So tomorrow came, and I snuck into my mom's squad car, wanting to see it for myself. I kept quiet under the blankets she kept in the passenger side’s foot-well for stake-outs. I remember smelling sea salt, knowing we were by the docks. She caught me poking my head out of the blankets and freaked out on me, shouting that I couldn't be there. That she'd expressly said not to sneak into the car anymore. But she calmed down and I told her I wanted to see what she'd told me about. She got out of the car, came around and told me that she had a job for me to do.”

 

She bit her lip, her back hunched over a bit like she needed to vomit, but I knew she was attempting to cough up painful memories. “She had to think quickly, so she gave me her phone and helped me up on top of a metal storage container. She told me to stay quiet, no matter what happened...don't cry, no matter what happened.” She was desperate not to cry, tears brimming, her cheeks reddening, “‘Don't you make a sound, baby. You be brave just like I taught you, and everything will be okay.’ But even then, I knew it wouldn’t be. I just  _ knew. _ ”

 

Gail gasped a breath, shutting her eyes tight. “A minute passed and Carmine Falcone, along with two other men showed up to the dock. I had seen him a few times, enough to put a name to a face...My mom said she would expose him. Told him that unless he lets Julian Day go back to Arkham, he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars for drug trafficking, multiple counts of murder in the first, third and fourth degrees…” She ran her tongue over her lower lip, which had red patches from biting it. “Blackmail…” 

 

Her eyes opened again, but it was like she wasn’t really seeing. Like she wasn’t even aware of any of us, she was reliving that day when she was eleven and was telling us what she saw. “He said didn’t appreciate being threatened. He didn’t appreciate being blackmailed. He was walking closer to her, like he wanted to break her in half over his knee…” Her chest shuddered with her inhale. “He was twice her size, and no matter how much judo she knew, when he grabbed her throat in one hand, there wasn’t anything she could do. I watched....” She glanced up at the ceiling, the shining streaks of tears that were going down her cheeks made me come away from the wall like a reflex. “God help me, I watched as he threw her by her  _ neck  _ at the squad car. She had the wind knocked out of her, but still tried to get to her gun. But…He shot her...in the stomach before she c-could. I-I’m sorry.” 

 

She crumpled, her knees coming up and her hands covering her face. She tightened on herself, trying not to make a sound. Like she had then. When she lowered her hands, her teeth were bared and her freckles disappeared as her face grew redder. A sob came from between her teeth. I wanted to run to her, take her up in my arms and run with her. Someplace where she would never have to look like that again. She would never hurt like that again...Oh Gail. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. 

 

I ignored the others as I put on foot in front of the other, until I dropped to one knee in front of her. I timidly placed a hand on her knee. She flinched at the touch, but once she saw it was me, she patted my hand, sniffing. I raised a hand to wipe her cheeks, feeling the eyes on my back as I did. She pushed my hands away, shaking her head. 

 

I whispered to her, not loud enough for the others to hear. “You don’t need to reassure me...I know you’re a strong person...do you want to continue?” 

 

We stared at each other for a moment. I could hear Tim and Dick talking quietly behind us, but I was only paying attention to her. She murmured back, dragging the back of her hand over her cheek. “I have to...for my mom…” Another tear squeezed out from the corner of her eye. “Jay...I miss her…” 

 

“I know, sunshine…” I understood how she felt; I did. I missed mine too. I caught the runaway tear with my pinky finger. “I know.” 

 

She caught her breath, and I kept tabs on how her asthma while she continued, moving back to my previous position against the wall. She spoke with a dead-ness to her voice, probably removing her emotional attachment to what she was saying so she wouldn't cry again. I knew the technique. 

 

“He...Falcone, he stuffed my mom into her car, and I was too scared to make a noise or do something...but I had my mom's phone. And I knew that I could take pictures. I knew what pictures could do. So I took as many as I could, and he never saw me. I was just a kid...But I knew that if they found me, bad things would happen to me. And they'd make my mom watch in the time she had left.” The dead detachment bittered into a gritty hatred I didn't expect, and her jaw set as she spoke. “He and the two big guys he brought with him got behind the car, pushed it into the harbor. The three of them were huge, muscular...no problem for them. And I got them on camera. They left as soon as the car hit the water. I called Bullock, only one I knew that would believe me that I got lost and couldn't find my mom...There was a search, and divers found her. Pronounced dead within twenty-four hours, and it went down as a cop-killing when they found the lead in her. As to who killed her? Case stayed open-ended.”

 

She tried to curl her hands into fists against the splints. Her eyelashes twitched with the pain, the corners of her eyes crinkling and her torso cringing. “My mom's death broke me...Broke Harvey too. Didn't take a genius to figure out that he loved her.” 

 

That tone in Bullock’s voice that night, when I talked about her mom. I'd figured that it was just a respect and friendship thing. Huh.

 

“But me, I...I didn't speak for a long time afterwards,” She sounded ashamed. “I kept the pictures...refused to let her phone out of my sight. But when my dad took me in, took me away from the neighborhood where my mom and I had lived, I never let him know I even had it...because maybe a month after I moved in, he started getting regular visits from...from him. Falcone.” 

 

“Gabriel Winters and Falcone…” Barbara said thoughtfully, “I can't even imagine...losing your mom like that and seeing her killer at your dad's house.”

 

“Every month for maybe an hour, he'd come by and just...check on us,” Her nose  wrinkled on one side. “Part of me was always terrified that perhaps he'd seen me that day, and wanted to be sure I was still too traumatized to talk...Well, he was right...I didn't talk again until I was thirteen.”

 

“Selective mutism,” Tim said, and Gail nodded. 

 

“That's what the child psychologist figured,” Her voice sounded cynical, like she'd thought the shrink was full of it. Maybe they were. “Brought on by the traumatic death of a loved one. Of course, the doctor didn't know I'd seen it myself. Nobody did.”

 

“Why did you keep it to yourself?” Dick asked, and I remembered that he'd watched his parents die too. Right in front of him. You'd never know that talking to him though. It's hard to believe sometimes that someone so upbeat and  _ good _ would've been that low once. Then again, I didn't expect all this from Gail either. 

 

“I wanted to be ready,” She answered, “It was idiotic and stupid of me to think I could do it myself, but I wanted to confront Falcone. Nobody else. To atone for my failure to save the one person I loved more than anything.”

 

Tim shot me a sideways glance. Like he couldn't believe it. I could. I trained an army to destroy Gotham last time I’d tried to “make things right.” I understood her. And the way Dick's body language read, he did too. 

 

I remembered what she’d said after I confessed.  _ I’d rather be at the mercy of murderers than my conscience.  _

 

“So, when I was old enough to buy a gun, I set my trap,” She seemed to get nervous as she went on, switching between the four of us. “I knew where he lived, my father had driven me over there enough times. I sent him an anonymous package with a copy of one of the photos inside, along with an address and an order to come alone or I'd take everything to Vicki Vale and Jim Gordon...he did as I asked.” She bit her lip, “But I didn't expect him to play fair. So I took my gun, and went to the address. It was the house my mom and I'd lived in. Nobody had been in it since us…”

 

She trailed off, and Tim coaxed diplomatically, “Please, continue.”

 

“I want you all to promise me that for the next part of my story,” She said, “You won't say anything until the end.” 

 

I had a gut feeling as she said that. And I really, really hoped I was wrong. I prayed I was wrong. 

 

I saw the others nod from the corner of my eye, and I gave a vague one myself. 

 

“Okay,” She started, biting her lip again. She talked around her teeth, “I knew the house like the back of my hand… the front door opened into the kitchen, and when the lights were off, the only light that would come into the room would be from the window over the sink...He came into the dark, and I stood so that I blocked out the light...I had a kitchen knife in one hand, and I held the point to the back of his head, told him to drop every weapon he had onto the floor.” The corner of her mouth twitched, “He did, but I patted him down just in case. Once he was completely defenseless, I turned the lights back on and had him turn around slowly…” 

 

She released her lip and kept her eyes glued to her feet. I could feel the nerves in the room. Tim and Babs and Dick, they didn’t understand this. Dick probably did a little bit, but not fully. But I did. 

 

“He laughed at first. Didn’t expect someone so tiny to get him like that, helpless.” Gail said, “He only said that to make me think he was. I was the one with the gun on him, I had the power...But I'm not stupid...you see, being a mute for a number of years means you do a hell of a lot of watching.” She raised her gaze level with Tim. “You can read people. You can tell whether someone's lying. You can tell whether someone's stalling or wanting to kill you for kicks...and that's what he was doing. Stalling. He said he had no idea why Gabe's ‘Wendy’ would be doing this,” She gave a noise of annoyance. “I hate being called ‘Wendy’.”

 

“And why should he, right?” She leaned over, rested her forearms on her thighs. Gail said her next words like she'd heard it a thousand times. “I'm just some stupid kid too self-righteous to know when I'm beaten...so I told him that I knew he killed my mother. Showed him a folder, said the photos were inside. Which they were. But I had copies on top of copies...my mom always made sure that when I created an argument, my facts better be damned straight.” 

 

“He was laughing still, just couldn't believe that I'd gone to all this trouble - waited this long to get him,” She paused, rubbing her mouth with her thumb. “I ask myself that all the time...He asked me if I've ever held a gun before, trying to force my young mind to reconsider. I told him the truth. I'd been to a range before then, shot plenty of targets, but I'd never pointed it at someone before...And I promise you, on the soul of my mother,” She was looking at me, her eyes watering again, “I didn't want to kill him. I had a recorder in my back pocket, I never had any intention of killing him…” 

 

I knew the others knew what she was saying. They heard it in her voice without the words. So I did the math. My tone wasn't resentful or even glad she did, just stating a fact. “But you did kill him.”

 

That was it. That part of her that never quite fit her right, the part that I had no clue about. This was it. She'd gotten her revenge. I hadn't even gotten that. She...she did it. She was doing my work before I was.

 

“It was an accident,” There was the confession, though I  _ was  _ surprised at the last word, and how her voice broke when she said it, “He rushed me, and on pure reflex, I pulled the trigger again and again until I heard clicks.”

 

“Do you regret it?” Tim asked flatly, like he expected her to say no. I noticed him tapping the edge of his mask, and I squinted at him.

 

Anger flared up in her form as the question floated in the air. She contained it, though, only half-succeeding. “I'm sure it would make sense if I didn’t. My mother's killer, right? Just a good-for-nothing criminal, right?...Wrong,” A tear rolled down her cheek, “The  _ only thing  _ I regret in my life is that I never brought him to  _ justice.  _ I couldn’t use any of the photos I’d had safe, I couldn’t avenge my mother, none of it. Yeah, I agree with him,” She jerked her chin at me, but had her eyes on Robin, “But it's not for me to do. It's one thing to kill because it's what should happen to twisted, psychotic people that live for it like Joker. That’s where Jason comes in. It's another thing to kill because it's  _ revenge _ . Revenge and avenging someone aren’t the same thing. Killing a bad person to make me feel better...Even Falcone had family. If I'd gone on, killed more...I would've been exactly like my uncle. Killing, not because I wanted to or because I felt good, but because I just couldn't stop.”

 

She and Tim stared at each other for a long time. Him a statue of regret and maybe repulsion. Her a figure of anger and righteousness. He didn't have to understand. He had to accept. She didn't have to beg forgiveness. She had to move on. 

 

“After I killed Falcone, I didn't know what to do. I broke down, and I couldn't take my eyes off him as he died, choking on his blood...I called the one guy who'd understand,” She said, “Bullock. He covered it up for me. He knew it was an accident before the words were out of my mouth. He knew I didn't mean it. So he arranged to have everything erased. Gordon never knew. He was busy with Batman and you,” Her eyes darted to mine again. “I changed my name. My grandmother's middle name was Abigail, and my favorite poet is still Lord Byron…” She sighed, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She stood, at last. “That's it. That's everything. Is that all you wanted to know?” 

 

“Yes,” Dick said; he was always polite with anyone he interrogated, thought it was a courtesy underappreciated in our line of work. But right now, I suppose I could rack it up to her being my friend and him treating her as such. “There’s a bathroom over there,” He pointed to the corner of the warehouse, where a few large crates were stacked and a door was visible. “If you wanted to clean up, be alone for a bit.” 

 

“Oh,” Abigail stretched her arms above her head, raising up on her tiptoes before she started towards the door, “Thanks.” 

 

We waited until the door shut after her. Then, the four of us just kinda looked at each other, either astonished by just how much she told us, or wondering what she might’ve left out. Shattering the silence was a shrill ringing noise, and Barbara jolted alert, digging through her shorts pocket for her phone. Her eyebrows shot up, “It’s Dad…” 

 

“Take it,” Tim said softly, and Babs nodded, rolling her wheelchair a few feet away from us before answering it. 

 

After a moment, I just exhaled a, “Damn.” 

 

“Yeah…” Dick scratched his neck, “Did you even know half of all that?” 

 

“Parts, like her mom and that she wasn’t a stranger to guns,” I rubbed my stubble, limping over to the chair she’d been in, settling into it to relieve my bad ankle, “The rest? No...but I don’t know, something always told me that there was some piece of her that had done something she wasn’t proud of...something she’d go to great lengths to run from. And I guess we found it.” 

 

“You know what I don’t get?” Tim said, walking over to us, “If she killed Falcone, how is he here now? Something doesn’t add up...but I had detective vision on during that part of her story, her heartbeat didn’t change nor did her eyes move around. She wasn’t lying.” 

 

“Wait, didn’t Clark say that the old man thought that the League of Assassins had something to do with the Joker attacks?” I was asking Dick, but Replacement answered me. 

 

“Yeah, but I don’t think Falcone has ever had any affiliation with Ra’s or Talia,” Tim worried at his forehead with his fingers. “And I don’t think he just happened to fall into a Lazarus Pit on his own.” 

 

I dug around in my head for a moment. Abigail killed Falcone when she was about eighteen. I knew she was a bit older than me, maybe a year older. I would’ve been Robin then. I don’t remember hearing anything about Falcone croaking. You’d think, big crime boss like that - if he had, Gotham would’ve celebrated. Great news stories, articles, a parade - I don’t know. Something. “Was there an obit, anything?” 

 

Tim raised his forearm, pressing a few buttons on his gauntlet before a holographic screen came up. I watched as he flipped through screens of Babs’ database. “Here’s something.. Nothing about any criminal allegations, just that his businesses were to be left to his children...Not an obituary but it’s a mention. And it says he died...exactly when Abigail said he did. Six years ago.” 

 

“Maybe the League needed a distraction,” Dick said quietly, thinking aloud. “They needed us occupied while Batman was quote-endquote, dead, and enlisted someone with enough leeway in the city to cause a ruckus. Brought him back from the dead, then demanded payment.” 

 

“How long can you be dead, necessarily, before the Pit can’t work?” I crossed my arms. 

 

Tim turned back to his holographic screen, searching again. “Says here that it was maybe a week before the League found another Lazarus Pit to dip Ra’s in after what happened at Arkham City, then again, that’s a guess. The closest Pit would’ve been in Guatemala…” 

 

“Exactly where Bruce is investigating, in the Maya ruins,” Dick realized, almost jumping around at his revelation - which I didn’t quite get yet, “He needs warned, both him and Alfred. This isn’t Nyssa Raatko in command, remember? They’re Al Ghul loyalists. It’s all connected!” 

 

“Hold it,” I made a ‘T’ with my arms, “Timeout, explain that again.” 

 

Tim closed his screen, “Yes, please do.” 

 

“The action isn’t going to be happening in Latin America,” He said, gesturing, “The war that we all feel is coming, it’s not going to be fought there. It’s coming to Gotham. The Joker attacks are here, and you were shot at a  _ Falcone stronghold  _ with  _ copycat Joker toxin _ . Carmine Falcone has come back to life thanks to the League of Assassins. Harley is with the League. Your first guess was right all along, Jason. If Joker was coming back, the first thing he’d want…” 

 

“...is Harley,” I finished, and the pieces were beginning to fit together in my head. My eyes widened. “Okay...I suppose we need to tell the old man.”

 

“Question is,” Tim put his hands on his hips. “Who will go see Bruce?”

 

“Clark's dealing with President Lex ‘I'm not a crook either’ Luthor,” Dick noted, his black hair jostled as he shook his head. “It has to be one of us.”

 

“You’re not in any shape to travel,” I told Tim, indicating his broken arm in the sling that hung from his neck. “It’s me or Dick…” 

 

Silence stretched out like elastic, threatening to snap at any minute, and the thought of facing Bruce had my mouth souring. Last time I saw him...Jeez. Last time I saw Bruce I’d been shooting off his restraints after listening to him roar that he’d bring death to Gotham and like it. Yeah, it was Joker inside him talking...but after I’d saved him, I hid. For all my talk of doing the right thing and being ballsy enough to kill criminals in Batman’s city, I hid like a coward. 

 

My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. I’d been a goddamn coward. Didn’t even stop by the cave to see Alfred. Didn’t even say goodbye to either of them. Some...son or ex-Robin, whatever, I was. What was I to them? The guy who, at one time, would’ve died for them, and the next time, would’ve died trying to kill them. I wanted to go scream at myself. Scream at my younger self. 

 

“I’ll do it,” Dick said, his gaze on my face. “I’ll leave tomorrow.” 

 

“Leaving to go where?” Barbara was rolling back over to us, shoving her phone back in her pocket and staring at Dick with a mix of concern and apprehension. 

 

As much as she’d like to disguise her feelings for Dick as nothing more than an old camaraderie when they were Robin and Batgirl together and the friendship that only comes with time, she couldn’t fool me. I cast a sideways glance at Tim, who shifted from one foot to the other with anxiety at how Dick and Barbara were looking at each other. I restrained my smugness, and tried to maintain blankness on my face. 

 

Dick and Tim filled her in on what we’d figured out. While they did that, I went to check on Abigail in the bathroom. As much as their issues amused me, they also got annoying after a bit. So to save myself a headache, I checked out and made my way to the far back of the warehouse, past crates of Waynetech gadgets that weren’t on the books but always found their way into utility belts. 

 

I tapped lightly on the door, my other hand on the knob, “Gail?” 

 

“Come in,” She said from inside, and I did, entering the cramped bathroom behind her as she bent over the little sink, her hair shielding her face from my view. She said, as if she believed it and had spent all this time convincing herself, “I’m okay.” 

 

I sidled in beside her, shutting the door. I didn’t believe it. I put my hands on her shoulders, and gently turned her. She pushed her hair away and revealed everything I expected: pale skin gleaming, freckles clustered on her nose as she wrinkled it, her eyes a little bloodshot and the skin around them raw. I caught my lower lip between my teeth, my brows knitting. I slid my hands up her neck to hold her head between them. 

 

This was the same girl who laid out my secrets like killing tools, but never used them against me...maybe more to show me she could than to spite me. An ordinary person. A civilian caught in my crossfire. This was the same girl who’d risked her life to save mine, twice; who stitched my leg, helped me find a peace in my genesis. She had no clue how much she’s done for me, without trying or being aware that was what she was doing. And with any luck, she’ll never know. 

 

But I didn’t do the same for her...then why am I wasting her time? To make me feel better? No. If I didn’t do the same for her, it’d be a pretty shitty way to repay her. 

Her eyelids slowly shut. “Six years of running from what I did. More than a decade of running from what I watched.” 

 

I understood that more than anything. Her hands, the metal of the splints cold against my skin, came up to curl around my wrists. I asked her, her stormy irises visible again and they appeared brighter in color against the bloodshot whites, “Aren’t you tired of running? I know I am.” 

 

“Did it feel this awful for you?” She went away from me, only a foot apart but my arms felt empty anyhow. She leant against the wall behind her like it was the only thing holding her up, or together. I got the point she made there; she wanted comfort when she asked for it, not before. Even if all I wanted to do was hold her. 

 

Her voice was steady, but the quiet to it gave her away, “Just unloading like that?”

 

“All the time,” I answered after a second, then turned a question she wouldn't like on her, “Was that the first time you'd told anyone?”

 

She deflected it with a question of her own. “When you told me what happened to you, was that the first for you?”

 

Images of that video camera on a tripod flashed in my mind, and I crossed my arms, stiffening all over. I tried to sound blasé, like it didn't matter anymore. “Mmhm.”

 

She wasn't convinced, but let it go. Gail fiddled with her hands then, pointedly fixating her eyes on them. Her voice was shattered glass, crumbling under the weight of what she told me next, “Jason...You know what scared me the most about confessing?”

 

I could've guessed a number of things. The fact that she didn't know any of the others and had to discuss the biggest trauma of her life anyways. Her anxiety triggering an asthma attack. How they abducted her from my firehouse, which I haven't gotten over yet myself. 

 

She filled it in for me, her gaze averted still. “Do you know what scares me the most,  _ period? _ That even after seeing so many die...my mom, Falcone, her partner…” I had a feeling the list went on a bit further, “... sometimes all I want to do is join them…”

 

I stared at her, said nothing. Because that was me, too. 

 

“Philosophy doesn’t do much to foster faith that they died for a reason and let me outlive them when I shouldn't have. But I know that if I got my wish,” She met my eyes, her own dry, “I'd be leaving so much work undone...work that needs to be done. I mean,” She coughed, “I don't have any friends, really-”

 

“-You've got me,” I interjected hotly, “Don't even think for a second you don't got me. And I've got you…” I jerked my chin at the door, “And them? They're paranoid, sure...but they're not half bad.” I chuckled, “Hell, if  they haven't kicked my teeth in for all the trouble I cause them, you're a breath of fresh air.”

 

That won me a smile, and I returned it. I shook my head, pointing a finger at her, “See that? You keep that and you'll be just fine. We both will be.”

 

“For a mass murderer,” She joked, “You give a hell of a ‘there's so much to live for’ speech.”

 

“Thanks, coach,” I quipped back, beckoning her closer with a slender finger, “C’mere, bring it in.”

 

She snorted, rolling her eyes before allowing me to pull her to my chest, wrapping my arms around her as her tiny hands pressed against my back. I wasn't a big hugger, and I could tell she wasn't either...but somehow, this managed to feel good. Warm. How the smell of my shampoo mixed with her own natural scent in her hair. How small she felt.

 

But the warmth came from conviction, not just comforting a friend. She hadn't wanted any of this, Gail. If I could learn anything about her from her confession, it's that this was the last thing she wanted to happen. She'd hoped that Falcone wouldn't be back to haunt her, but it had. 

 

Gail was tearing herself apart over failing like that. 

 

I looked past her shoulder at the mirror behind her. I watched the Jason Todd in the mirror, with his messy black hair with the one white streak and scarred pale skin, wind one marred arm behind her neck and curl the other around her waist, the ‘J’ on his cheek visible above the blonde locks of the girl in his arms. I saw how he breathed her in, drank in the image in the mirror and exhaled slowly...maybe even a little content in how she hung onto him, too, her face pressed against the crook of his neck. Her hands together over his chest, as if she wanted to touch his heartbeat.

 

I couldn't help feeling selfish.

 

I squeezed her a bit tighter as I made a hard decision. One I’d never like. Once Carmine Falcone was dead, for good this time, I would get her out of Gotham City. I promised myself I would. I would keep this promise. She didn't deserve any of today to happen. She didn't want this. She wanted to do something good for someone who didn't deserve it...

 

I swore that the day the Falcone threat was gone, she would be safe...and safe meant out of Gotham. 

 

Safe meant as far away from me as possible.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	37. Like Children Often Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's hunt on crime will never be the same.

“Tell me all your thoughts on God

'Cause I am on my way to see her

So tell me am I very far, am I very far now?"

It's getting cold picked up the pace

How our shoes make hard noises in this place

Our clothes are stained

We pass many cross-eyed people

And ask many questions

**Like children often do** ”

  * Dishwalla, “Counting Blue Cars” 



……..

 

“‘G’...’G’...Gwen Stefani.”

 

“The big bad Red Hood likes Gwen Stefani, I've heard it all.”

 

“Don’t you forget it. You know, she used to be in a B+ band called No Doubt before she went solo with ‘Hollaback Girl’ and all that happened. Weren't too bad.”

 

Gail rubbed her forehead, laughing, “He just said ‘Hollaback Girl’...What're we on?” 

 

“‘H,’” I replied as I rose up in my seat, trying to see if the streetlight had changed colors. Nope. Dammit. Rush hour in Gotham was murder. We’d had to taxi to Gail’s for clothes, which was a ridiculous experience I don't want to repeat.

 

I rolled down the window of her Subaru, my eyes squinted in the sun as I rested my forearm on the steering wheel. We were on our way to Bullock’s to pick up some things  to make his hospital room more homely. Unfortunately, that was clear across the city. 

Gordon’s call to Barbara was a report: Harvey will recover, it was just a matter of time until he woke up. We had to regroup, the same thing we were sure Falcone was doing. 

 

“Hmmm…” Gail hummed from the passenger's seat, circular sunglasses glaring. She now wore a pair of denim shorts, along with Chucks and a loose, gray t-shirt. I saw her expression brighten out of the corner of my eye. “Huey Lewis and The News.”

 

“Really?” I couldn't help the grin. “‘The Power of Love’ and shit?”

 

She had this goofy smile plastered over her face then, talking like a recorded telemarketer, “‘In '87, Huey released this, ‘Fore!’, their most accomplished album. I think their undisputed masterpiece is ‘Hip To Be Square’, a song so catchy most people probably don't listen to the lyrics - but they should-’”

 

“-are you quoting  _ American  _ friggin’  _ Psycho  _ to me right now?” I was pinching the bridge of my nose, giggling like an idiot.

 

She was eating it up, poking my arm, “Pull over, I need to return some videotapes.”

 

“Z-zip it,” I stuttered through cackles, getting a hold on myself, “That's it, I'm buying you lunch later.”

 

“Not at Dorsia, I hope,” She said nonchalantly out the window. 

 

“Jesus, Abigail,” Another short wave of giggles rocked my lungs until the light turned green and we started off again just to advance another thirty feet to another stop light. “Alright …’I’.”

 

She bit her lip as she thought about it, throwing her feet up on the dash because she was so short, she could. “Iron and Wine.”

 

“Never heard of them,” I said, and she wrote it down as legibly as she could with splints on her fingers, onto a notepad she'd brought from her apartment for this game. We were collecting bands we could listen to while we guarded Bullock, ones we could introduce each other to. I had her beat by three bands. 

 

“J…” I said, trailing off. My brand burned. “Hey, Gail?”

 

“Mm?” She had her seat tilted back, her blonde hair spread out on the headrest. 

 

The light switched to green and we were moving again. I ran my free hand through my hair. Didn't want to do this; she'd been interrogated enough today, “Mind if I ask you somethin’?”

 

She didn't answer right away, but her fingers stopped playing with the string that bound the scrappy notebook on her lap. For a few minutes, we were quiet. I stole glances at her in the mirror and out of the corner of my eye, her own glued to the window as if she hadn't heard me. 

 

I saw the yellowing bruise along her jaw, and thought about how many times I'd had one just like it...never received in the same way twice, but still. The swelling in her nose that hiked up her sunglasses just so. Couldn't have happened more than a week ago. My own crooked nose hurt just looking at it. 

 

Maybe it was none of my business...but this was exactly the kind of thing I feared happening to her when I let her walk out of the firehouse weeks ago, after I showed her my scars. I never wanted her like that because of me. Distant. Afraid. Although...after what she'd said earlier this morning, this wasn't her first rodeo. 

 

But even if I'm scared to stay close to her, even if I don't know if either of us will last the day, even if I can’t save the city that forged me, even if I can’t fight for the streets I survived in  _ as a boy _ , even if I can’t right the wrong I did  _ as a man _ , even if I can't keep the promise I made on the gargoyle or break the one Bullock wanted me to maintain, even if I'll never see Bruce or Alfred again or Barbara or my brothers...even if I'm falling into something with Abigail Byron that I can't exactly climb my way out of, something deep inside the blackened parts of me told me I had to try. I'll never forgive myself if I didn't. 

 

I cared for this girl. I knew that. After all she's said today, she didn't ask for any of this to happen to her. Or me to happen to her. I had to focus on that if I wanted to prevent her from hurting much worse.

 

“I still want to know who put those bruises on your face,” I said, then added, “And I still want to put their head on a stick.”

 

She gave me a name, though a bit quiet but my hands got hot, my head felt like a kettle about to whistle. “ _ What?”  _

 

“He came to visit me after you blew up that law firm of his,” She said matter-of-factly, like it was trivial and I shouldn't be getting riled up, “Falcone wanted to take his anger out, even said he hoped you saw his handiwork. He was sending you a message through me.” 

 

I scratched the scruff peppered along my jaw, trying not to wreck her car out of sheer frustration. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

 

“He threatened me,” She turned her face towards me, eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses.

 

“With what?”

 

She didn't answer, and I repeated my question through my teeth. 

 

“I'm his murderer,” She reminded me, her knuckles white as they curled around her notebook, “And I'm a link to you. Put marks on me, you get angry and reckless. You strike, he catches you. He wins.”

 

Like hell. A growl rippled up my throat and I slammed the heel of my hand into the wheel, “Son of a bitch, I'll kill him!” 

 

“Don't dent my steering wheel,” She warned drolly, and I was - may I say- irate at her calm. 

 

“Don't act like you're okay with this,” I seethed back, and I saw with some small degree of remorse that I had left a dent. I'll get her a new one. “Why are you so calm? He hurt you. He put his hands on you and you could care less.”

 

“Because I  _ don't _ care, what he does,” She placed a hand over my forearm, “He can do what he wants, I won't help him.”

 

_ I’d rather be at the mercy of murderers than my conscience.  _

 

The whole notion made me uneasy and protective beyond my norm of zero-to-sixty, but eventually, after mumbling profanities for another forty yards, I cooled down. I drew my arm back until her hand fell into mine, I squeezed it and let it fall before I got any selfish ideas about holding it. 

 

“Just…” I wanted to throw something, swearing again, “Dammit, Gail…” 

 

She patted my shoulder, pointing to an apartment complex on the right side of the road, “Hey, here's Harvey’s place.”

 

I squeezed the car into the skinny, barely wide-enough park lane so that her door faced the sidewalk. Dropping her sunglasses on the dash, she started to open the door, before I pressed a hand to her shoulder and had her look at me. 

 

“Listen, Gail…” I leaned close, staring her hard in her eyes and, though I don't think I decided to do it, my hands held hers between us, “Maybe I'm coming out of left field with this but I'm seeing too much to ignore the possibility…”

 

She squinted, her eyebrows knitting. “Jason…”

 

“I know suicidal when I see it,” I said bluntly, watching her face pale, “Trust me, I might not be here if it wasn't for my vendetta. I might be buried in Venezuela someplace…”

 

She calmly spoke, but I felt the outlines of the shouting lecture she wanted to give me as she did, “Don't mistake my eagerness to leap into the fire for masochism...you know, you were a civilian too before you stole those hubcaps. I may not have the extensive martial arts training or the education, but I've got the same heart you've got.” She poked a finger at my chest, “You and I both know what it's like to endure so that others don't have to…”

 

“Even for me?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

 

“What did I tell you last night?” She sighed, her eyes dark. “You're trying to make it right. And you're worth more than you think. To the world and to me. Don't try to stop me from-”

 

I cut her off, snarling under my breath as my anger spilling over the top of the dam I’d been stopping it with, “-if you think I'll just sit by-”

 

She withdrew her hands from mine, her own frustration rising in her voice, “Jason, why do you give a damn? Why do you insist on saving my ass?”

 

“Because you’re a much better human being than me,” I shot at her, too fast to stop myself, and she shook her head, “No, listen for a second- you’re willing to throw yourself to the wolves for someone that has caused so many people so much pain, because  _ your conscience  _ scares you more than they do.”

 

“Yeah, it does,” She got closer to me to argue back, and I could see in her eyes that she hated herself, “But I'm also a murderer. I got revenge, not justice.…You, you torture yourself every day over what you did. Me? I get up in the morning and I’m  _ disappointed  _ that I failed to kill him. What kind of person thinks like that?”

 

In that split second, I could smell my shampoo in her hair again, taste the coppery blood from the cut that reopened on her lip, the yellowing paper scent that clung to her skin, the gold of her hair, could count the freckles on her cheekbones, drowned in the blue of her eyes, and I had a sudden, maddening, irresponsible, stupid, selfish urge to kiss her. I bit down on my tongue, hard enough to taste my own blood in my mouth and it curbed the urge enough for me to control myself. 

 

“I think like that,” I admitted, “I had him and your father pinned down once, could've taken them both out...didn't. You think now, knowing what I know about you, I don't feel disappointed that I didn't gut them right there for what they did to you?” I made a soft noise pushing air through my teeth, “I've got a  _ whole fucking list _ of people I'm disappointed I didn't kill sooner. Scarecrow, for obvious reasons. Falcone, for all the shit he did to people on top of what he did to you. Deathstroke and Lex Luthor, without whom my militia would've been the sloppy seconds of Hugo Strange’s TYGER men. And guess what, sunshine, some days I'm at the top of that list.”

 

Shit. I...I think that's the first time I ever said that out loud. And the look on her face, her hands covering her mouth and her eyes watering...Dammit. 

 

She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me, her face in my shoulder. Nerves lit my skin on fire where she touched me, but I had to focus. I didn't want her to be sorry for me, but after a moment, I returned it. 

 

“Just be careful, alright?” I said in her hair, glad she couldn't see my cheeks heat up as I told her, “And live. Just keep living and I’ll be okay.” 

 

She inhaled a strangled breath, and I loosened my grip, realizing I’d been holding her a little too tight. “Same goes to you.” 

 

………………………………………………………………..

 

We didn’t spend long at Bullock’s place, and in all honesty, I spent most of our time there checking out windows and down hallways to ensure that no one else was there but us. I was strapped with a couple of handguns concealed under my jacket, a knife in my boot, and a flashbang grenade in the other boot. 

 

Abigail came out of the apartment with a book and oddly enough, a few records. We got back in her car and I drove us out, maintaining a steady silence the entire way to where the rest of the family was. 

 

…………………………………………………….

 

Elliot Memorial was the last hospital left in Gotham with a chapel. Barbara Gordon was mildly relieved that the chapel had a ramp, unlike some of the older parts of the building where wheelchairs weren’t accommodated. Her fingernail beds were raw and didn’t appreciate the extra abuse wheeling herself from the fourth floor where Bullock was currently being watched over by her father, his ex-partner and best friend, all the way to the ground floor. 

 

She let her burning arms dangle at the sides of her chair when she got there, taking in her surroundings. The ceilings were lower, making her feel safe and enclosed, and although the chapel only had a few rows of pews, the room held with it a kind of security. A golden cross was hung on the far wall, the Christ figure hanging from the shape. 

 

Barbara had never been to church in her life. Praying was something vaguely familiar...the only glimpses she’d had was when her father Jim would thank God up and down every time she came home from school safely as a child. And she’d never understood it until after she was paralyzed, then she started to do the same when the Commissioner returned from a shift at GCPD. 

 

After Bruce lost Jason, she’d seen Alfred praying alone in the mansion many times for him and had caught on to the basic steps. She pushed herself down the aisle to just in front of the altar, reaching out to touch her fingertips to it. She knew no psalms, she knew no prescribed prayers...but she had an idea of what she wanted to say, and hoped that that would be enough. 

 

But as she drew in breath to begin, a voice from right beside her startled her eyes back open. 

 

“I didn’t expect to find you here…” 

 

She jolted, almost tipping her chair over, and looked over to find Dick standing next to her, his eyes on the golden cross. His hair was unkempt, the black strands hanging in his eyes and the five o’clock shadow along his jaw would’ve made her knees weak if she could feel them, she mused. He wore a white tank, a pair of jeans his hands were shoved into the pockets of. 

 

She clutched her chest and breathed, “You scared me…” 

 

“Sorry,” He said shortly, his gaze transfixed on the face of Jesus. He inquired, moving a hand to the back of her chair,“What’re you doing down here?” 

 

“To be honest?” She sighed, defeated, “I don’t know...my dad is up there with Bullock, and I don’t know what to do for this whole situation but to bargain with Him.” 

 

He slowly nodded, finally glancing down at her. Dick didn’t know what to say that might put her at ease, and even with all his optimism, to think that maybe the Joker was back after all…

 

He found himself thinking to Jason, and his poor friend Abigail. He hoped she stayed with Jason...as after today, Dick himself might not be there to keep his brother together. Dick was about to leave to find Bruce. If the reverse tracking on the BatComputer signal was right, it should lead him straight to Bruce...but that’s something he didn’t pass on to the rest of the family. 

 

“My parents weren’t overly religious,” He said after a few moments of quietly being with her, “But there were times, like when a performer died or got sick...that they had me pray with them, that’s how I learned. The way I understood it was...it wasn’t what you said that was important, it was how much you meant it.” 

 

“When was the last time you prayed, Grayson?” She asked, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. 

 

Dick hesitated. In truth, the last time he  _ really  _ prayed, he did so with tears in his eyes...because the woman he loved was broken beyond repair, and he’d been someplace else, in someone else’s arms because he was too late to work up the nerve to tell her. Because he wasn’t there to save her. He waited too long, and he believed that if he’d only told her sooner that he loved her more than the stars in the sky, more than he loved to breathe, she wouldn’t be half-dead.

 

He remembered the night he saw Barbara in that hospital bed, unconscious from shock, and he climbed through the window, sat by her bed. An emotional wreck, he cried into the palm of her hand and begged, yes -  _ begged _ for the first time in his life _ ,  _ for God to heal her in any way he could. Or at least to keep her alive and in his life. Even if he couldn’t have her.

 

“Can’t remember, really,” He lied, knowing himself to be unreadable to her and she’d believe it enough not to press further. “Probably when Jason disappeared.” 

 

That wasn’t a total lie...he’d prayed for Jay, too. But it was more for Bruce and Alfred than for himself, he hadn’t known Jason as he did now. Enough to love him as a brother.

 

“Where’s Tim?” Dick asked her. 

 

He liked Tim, he did. He had ceased thinking of him as the new kid after Fear Halloween, and more as an equal. Though Tim had been the one who swept Barbara off her feet the way Dick would’ve wanted to, Dick knew he would be good to her. He was smart, too; enough to keep himself and others alive, more so than the rest of the family sometimes. Bruce included. 

 

“Trying to get some sleep,” She said, frowning, “He’s pushing himself...but he’s not built like you or Jason. He can’t go on three hours of sleep.” 

 

Dick uttered a soft chuckle, rolling his shoulders restlessly, “How’s his arm?” 

 

“An inconvenience, but I set the bones myself,” She shrugged, “If he doesn’t get surgery and has the sling on it, he’ll be back at it in six weeks...If he does, sooner.” 

 

“We need him ready as soon as possible,” Dick noted, worry creasing his forehead, “If Tim’s out for longer, while I’m gone you’ll only have Jason to work with and with one or two hits, Falcone could tear this thing wide open.” 

 

“I know,” She met his eyes, and both of them forgot completely where they were, “I’m having Lucius work on flexible casts so he could go on patrol, at least.” She took out her phone, checking for texts to see if Tim had woken up. Nothing. She went to a different screen, “Kate Kane will be back in town on the thirty-first, and I called ahead. She’ll be patrolling.” 

 

A smile curled Dick’s lip. Falcone’s never met Batwoman. That’s an advantage. He had an idea, though he wasn’t sure how practical it was, “When’s the last you heard from Selina?” 

 

“Since she destroyed Riddler’s robot factory?” Barbara shook her head. “I could try reaching out, see where she might be.” 

 

“Do it, we’ll need every hand we can get,” Dick said, before he caught sight of the cross again and laughed. 

 

“What?” Her brows knit behind her blue-rimmed glasses. 

 

“Sorry,” He rubbed an eye, “I'm laughing at how easy we got caught up in business...and forget everything else. Sometimes, it's almost like we do it on purpose.”

 

“Do we?” She asked sincerely, her voice smaller than he was used to. 

 

He stared at her, and she stared back. A groggy, thick voice from the entrance to the chapel brought them both back to the present, “Hey guys.”

 

Both former Robin and former Batgirl looked back to see a sleep-disheveled Tim, “Jason and Abigail just arrived, we need to plan our next move.”

 

He glanced between them, before leaving the room once again. Barbara shot Dick a ‘well we'd better go’ smile and rolled herself out after Tim, leaving the acrobat to stand there alone with the cross behind him.

 

He exhaled, his moving to the face of Jesus behind him. “Please, keep her safe while I'm gone.”

 

And then Dick Grayson left the chapel, about to say goodbye to what he knew.

…………

 

Have I mentioned yet how much I hate hospitals? Like, every time I drive by one or run past one, I just ended up thinking about all the sorry people in there with crappy luck and places like the morgue. 

 

It smelled too clean, and I felt like an eyesore, covered in scars and moodiness. Don't get me started on the snotty doctors and passive-aggressive ‘have a nice day’ nurses who groan when the call light signals that they're needed. It's the exact kind of place I went insane in. 

 

We were standing in a conference room, Abigail and I. It was usually where doctors consulted people, or each other; long table, plenty of leather chairs and a flat-screen computer monitor mounted on the far wall. Light poured in from the windows at my back, the sun warming my skin as I stood with my arms crossed. Abigail chose to sit in one of the chairs, swaying left and right as we waited for the others.

 

Tim got back first, nodding to her and not meeting my eyes. He looked like hell, dark circles and he winced every time his arm moved, still wrapped up in the sling. Only he shifted uncomfortably and blinked more often, like he’d just seen something that’d turned his stomach. 

 

Abigail attempted small talk, eyeing him carefully, “I brought some Ibuprofen...if you needed…” 

 

He waved her off, “Nah, I’ll be alright...thanks, though.” 

 

“Sure,” She said, as the door opened again and in came Barbara, with Gordon pushing her in. 

 

Barbara rolled her way to the front of the room, while Gordon caught sight of the newest addition to the team. When Jim and Abigail saw each other, both froze. His eyes got wide, and her face paled as he slowly walked around the table. 

 

“Sir…” She said, strangely formal. “I, uh...Hi.” 

 

Jim’s features softened, taking off his glasses, “How many times did I tell you not to call me ‘sir’, no matter how many times your mother said otherwise?” 

 

“Something short of a million,” Gail said, barely having time to get up from her chair before Gordon turned it around, scooping up the girl in a hug. Tim and Barbara watched on, him wary and her beaming. 

 

Jim exhaled, blowing away a lock of her blonde hair, “Missed you, kid.” He let her go, setting her back on her feet, “I appreciate you bringing the records.” 

 

Gail nodded, grinning. Jim’s own faded when he saw me. We locked a gaze for a second, before he outstretched a hand. I could tell he was doing it out of respect for the old man, not really out of respect for me. Not that I cared where he put it and what for, but I guessed this was likely thanks for saving Gail at the charity event, or something convoluted and mushy. Or maybe he wanted to thank me for killing Alberto. Whatever. Gordon wasn’t a mushy guy, but he was like the old man in some ways. Sentimental, honorable. I didn’t do it for him. 

 

I felt Gail’s eyes on me, and I took a hand out of my pocket to shake his. Dick had just walked in, shutting the door behind us all and coming to my side. Gordon went to stand next to his daughter, before he began talking, “Alright...Falcone’s on the back foot, and he’s just lost a son, which means he’s mad.” 

 

“You’re welcome,” I mumbled, and Dick shook his head from beside me. 

 

“Barbara filled me in,” Jim said, his eyes sweeping over us, “And...Well. I don’t think we can afford to flirt around the subject any longer. There’s a very strong possibility that Joker is back...now, if there’s anybody with room for suspicion about this, it’s me.” He pointed to the floor, “I was in the morgue with Bruce, and I hit the button. Cremated him. Don’t get any deader than that…His body was under top security between the time he died and the day we cremated him. Nobody took their eyes off him for a second.” 

 

I raised an eyebrow. Didn’t know he was cremated...Shame he wasn’t alive when they burned his ass. Damn shame. Would’ve  _ paid  _ to watch that. 

 

“Recently, I went through the security footage in the morgue,” Barbara told us, “And I found something...Between December thirty-first and January first, two years ago...there was ten seconds of footage that was deleted…” 

 

Gordon turned on the TV monitor, and the footage was on the screen. There he was...hands folded over his chest, purple pinstripe suit...yellow flower...white face covered in sickening sores, his green hair thinning. Barbara gestured to a surgical tray that was on a table by Joker’s body, “Keep your eyes on these, they're the contents of his pockets…”

 

I couldn't see much, but I could see a purple-handled knife I was...familiar with. My insides clenched, and more than a few scars burned on my back...Jesus. There was a nudge in my elbow, and I mumbled that I was fine to Dick. 

 

Barb played the footage, “After about three seconds in, watch…”

 

I trained my eyes on the knife, ignoring my nausea. After three seconds, there was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flicker of black and the knife was gone, along with the other grainy objects on the tray. Joker's body was still there, but his stuff was gone. 

 

“How recent did you see this?” Tim asked, incredulous, “How'd we not see this sooner?”

 

“I was searching as soon as the playing card was left with the Platters song,” Barbara said, biting her lip. 

 

“Who'd want his things?” Dick voiced aloud, “Harley was in Bludhaven when this was recorded.”

 

“I can confirm that,” I said lowly, “She was starting to work with Scarecrow and I, Penguin reported to me that she was there.”

 

I received plenty of uneasy stares from everyone, and I shrugged, scoffing, “It's fact-checking, people.”

 

“This doesn't really qualify as proof,” Gail piped up, the others surprised at her contributing. “He's still on the table after the jump.”

 

“Doppelganger corpses,” Tim said, turning to her. “The League of Assassins have used them before to fake deaths, steal corpses.”

 

“Which is why I had round-the-clock guards on him,” Jim said, shaking his head. 

 

“We can't afford to fully deny the possibilities of tampered video evidence anymore,” Barbara said, trying not to look at me and I knew why. 

 

Gordon put his hands on his hips, “We need to figure out what our next move is.”

 

“I'm going to find Bruce,” Dick declared, stepping forward, “If anyone's got a chance of stopping him…”

 

Jim stared at him, and I knew he hadn't been told that Bruce is alive, but I don't think he really bought it for a second anyways, “Who's going with you?”

 

“Friend of mine,” Dick said, poking a thumb to the door, “She's on her way here to pick me up. Once she does, I'll be on my way.”

 

“Who is she?” Tim asked, suspicious. 

 

“She's good,” Dick dodged the question again, trying to figure out how to say it, “She's, uh...not from around here.”

 

“Fine,” Tim lifted his free hand, “As for the rest of us?”

 

“You're not doing anything until you heal,” I ordered, firm, “It'll be just me unless we get some backup.”

 

“Just you?” Tim repeated, and I was in no mood for his ‘but Jason's too dangerous’ shpeel. 

 

“Problem, Replacement?” 

 

“Not here,” Babs warned, “I'm working on backup, but until help arrives, it will be Jason doing the heavy-lifting.”

 

“I’ll try to support you where I can with men,” Gordon attempted to reassure me, but I resisted the need to roll my eyes. 

 

“Support me by keeping your donut squad out of my way,” I said shortly, and Gordon did his best not to seem annoyed. He was failing.

 

Tim sighed, leaning back in his chair, “And what am I to do while I'm dealing with this?” He gestured to his sling. “If it takes surgery to get me back in the field - I'll do it.”

 

“Even with surgery, you'll be out for another three weeks regardless to recover function,” Dick informed as he checked his phone. 

 

“You'll be helping me,” Barb said, smiling, “Some of the people I'll be asking for backup will need convincing, and I'll need help taking down Falcone and the League's financial supply lines.” She took his hand, “You always say we never get to spend time together.”

 

“Hmm, might learn to like this,” Tim quipped, squeezing her hand gently. 

 

I might vomit. Gordon pointedly left the room, muttering something about seeing if Bullock’s alright. I glanced over at Dick, and he jerked his chin to the door. Gail stretched as she got out of her chair, following me as the three of us left Tim and Barb, who’d started discussing the game plan on their end. Technobabble made my head hurt. 

 

“Is there anything I can help with?” Gail asked Dick as she walked around to my side, gazing past me to him. We were just walking down the hall, doctors and nurses weaving around us to get where they were going. 

 

Dick, thankfully, didn’t dismiss her like Tim might’ve. He answered her, “I’m not sure...can’t go back to your apartment.” 

 

Gail frowned glumly. “I knew that.” 

 

“She could stay with me until this blows over,” I offered, “My place is the last safehouse that Falcone doesn’t know about.” 

 

“I’m fine with that,” Gail said, a bit more confident, “But I’d like to do something more substantial than play housekeeper.” She stopped us, and the three of us were semi-huddled together so we wouldn’t block up the hallway, “I have information that might help, just things I picked up from being around Falcone so much when I lived with my father.” 

 

“You want to come with me on missions,” I said, unsure of her real intentions.

 

Gail scrunched up her nose, joking with a wry smile, “I want to be  _ useful,  _ Jason, not blow things up and do crazy shit.” 

 

“It’s worked so far, hasn’t it?” I defended, though I knew she was partly right. “Hey, I’ve always had a plan,” I squinted at her, as Dick switched between us with amusement in his eyes, “Can’t call it ‘crazy shit’ if it has a plan.” 

 

“Plans make sense,” Gail refuted, hands on her hips, “Yours don’t.” 

 

The corner of my lips pulled up in a crooked smirk, and I leaned closer, plenty of sass in my voice, “I am under no obligation to make sense to you, sunshine.” 

 

“And I’m under no obligation to tell you what I know,” Gail said, not backing down for a second. 

 

“Then here’s the bargain,” I said, bringing something I’d been tossing around in my head to light, “You give me what you’ve got on Falcone, and I give you a crash course in crime fighting when I’m not doing, quote-endquote, ‘crazy shit’.” 

 

“Done,” She agreed, holding a splinted hand to be shaken, and I took it, dwarfing her little fingers in my own. She seemed proud of herself, “Now that that’s taken care of, I’m gonna go find Harvey.” She regarded Dick, shaking his hand too. “Nice meeting you.” 

 

“Take care, Abigail,” He said, and she half-jogged down the hall in the direction Gordon had disappeared. 

 

“Don’t say it,” I said as soon as she was out of sight, and the two of us slid into a nearby elevator alone, my brother hitting the button for the garage.

 

“You two are good together,” Dick did it anyway. 

 

I itched the back of my neck. “We’re friends, Dick.” 

 

“That’s what I meant,” Sure it was, Dick. Sure it was. 

 

The doors swooshed open, and we stepped out into the breezy, but hot garage. I asked, leaning against the cold concrete wall as he craned his neck to see further, “So exactly who is this chick that's picking you up? I know you're together. ‘Kory’ or whatever.” 

 

“You want the short answer or the long answer?”

 

“Long,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. 

 

“She’s an alien princess from another planet,” Dick said, as casual as if he were talking about dating a bartender from someplace, “Name’s Koriand’r, calls herself Starfire. Met her while I was visiting the Titans. She’s got superhuman strength, can fly, outstanding endurance to hostile environments, nearly immune to extreme radiation, can shoot absorbed energy into these really cool green blasts,” he held his hands out to indicate the size of one of these things, “They’re called ‘starbolts’.” 

 

“...Starbolts,” I said after listening to this montage, not doubting him but rather kinda fascinated, “So this...Starfire?” He nodded, “She can fly?” 

 

“Yeah, apparently her powers are triggered by emotion,” Dick informed, a stupid grin on his face. He was fascinated by her, I could tell. “Flight’s triggered by joy. Starbolts is confidence..”

 

“Huh. Neat,” I said, before asking the important question, “Are you happy with her?”

 

He stared at me, before thinking. I had a guess what about. After a minute, a small close-lipped smile formed on his face. “She's wonderful.”

 

Before I could reply, a screeching sound split the silence and I saw Dick's car screaming up the path, barely missing the other cars. Dick tried not to freak out as the car nearly hit me as it parked. 

 

Almost immediately after the car stopped, the drivers side door opened and an almost supermodel-ish tall, woman with a long, thick braid of red hair all the way to her thighs and copper skin that seemed nearly orange hopped out, throwing up her hands, “Dick, did you see?! I parked!”

 

“Good job, Kory,” He said weakly, proud of her and slightly scared for her at the same time. He asided to me, “She's learning.”

 

“I can see that,” I snorted.

 

As Kory sprinted around the car, I saw that she wore one of those to-the-ground dresses and she was nearly taller than me, definitely a bit taller than Dick. 

 

“Kory, this is my brother,” Dick introduced, “Jason, this is Kory.”

 

Her eyes, sclera included, were a bright green. Yeah. Definitely an alien. I put on my best attempt at a good-natured smile, holding a hand out, “Nice to meet you.”

 

“You as well!” Her voice might’ve been a bit annoying, if I hadn't been focused on the fact that her hand was squeezing the shit out of mine, and I grimaced, “Oh, I am sorry, did I hurt you?”

 

“I'm great,” I reassured, massaging my fingers once she let go, “Hell of a grip you got there.”

 

“Thank you. I am still sorry,” She sounded genuinely apologetic, “I sometimes have trouble with how much pressure I put into handshakes. Dick's is usually strong.”

 

“You sayin’ I shake hands like a sissy?” I joked as Dick went to check the trunk of his car to make sure he had everything, I suppose. 

 

Kory gave me a knowing and honest expression. “More like you are holding back, as if you are afraid of hurting those you touch.”

 

“Wha?” I stared at her, a little dumbstruck. Dick called over, saying that he had everything and was ready to go, striding back to us. 

 

“I will get in the car and let you say goodbye,” Kory said, pecking Dick's cheek and winking at me before going to the car. 

 

I rattled my head, clearing it. It was my brother and me. Dick and I looked at each other, then pulled each other in for a hug at the same time. He had a hand tight at the back of my neck, and he said to me, “I'm gonna bring him home safe, Jason.”

 

I still wasn't sure how I felt about seeing Bruce again, but I just held him harder, shutting my eyes, “You bring  _ you  _ home safe...You're my brother, Dick.”

 

“Love you too, Jay,” He said, throat thick as we gradually broke apart, “Update me, okay?” 

 

“I will,” I promised, as he finally turned away and got into the driver's side of his car. 

 

He drove off, and, though I knew better, I found myself wondering if that was the last time I'd see him. 


	38. Paralogue 1: All the World's Sinners

After the charity event, crime in Gotham declined but it was by no means a calm like some of the media were already talking.

Pfft. When I looked out into the night from my kitchen window, I felt like invisible wires of tension were tying the buildings together, only to threaten to break the city apart at any moment. The seconds of anticipation before the referee says ‘fight’. Something was out on the horizon, and I couldn’t see it yet, but I knew it was coming. 

And I felt disgustingly underprepared. Both tactically, and to some degree, mentally. 

First order of business was getting Abigail moved out of her apartment and into my firehouse, which was spread out in gradual trips over a week so it wouldn’t be overly conspicuous to anyone who might’ve been watching her. She insisted that she didn’t need me to take all of her records to the firehouse, but in the back of my mind, I imagined them torching her place and her records being destroyed...No. Wasn’t going to happen. 

I didn't expect her to have so many books, either. I was glad; it felt nice after a long patrol and a hot shower, picking up something from her library to read the rest of the night till daybreak. Sometimes she'd stay up just to read to me as I drifted off into sleep. She had a lot of my old favorites, like P and P, Jane Eyre, and a beat-up copy of Alice in Wonderland. 

I can't tell you how many times we laid on the floor, side-by-side, and both of us fell asleep with books on our faces.

I moved one of the bed frames from the dormitories into the room where my hammock was, got her a mattress from a thrift store nearby, and I think both of us were relieved to not be home alone most of the time. We just...enjoyed having someone else in the next room. 

For the entire time she was living with me, we did this one thing. It felt like an inside joke; it wasn’t exactly funny but it was something only we did, only we understood it. For example, one day Gail was picking something out of her collection to throw on the turntable (we brought them over in cardboard boxes, but I eventually talked her into putting them in the spare weapons caches I had so they’d be protected), and I’d hear her call out, “Jason?” 

And I’d be downstairs working on the Missus or on the computer, and I’d call back, “Yeah? You okay?” 

Just the smile in her voice as she’d say, “Yeah.” 

Then later that same day, I was cooking and she’d be standing right next to me, picking spices out of my rack. I’d say, “Gail?” 

“Mmm?” Would be her reply. 

I’d smirk at her, “Nothin’.” 

We just... fit into a relaxed, natural domesticity that was punctuated by the training sessions I’d begun to give her when I wasn’t on patrol. It caught me off-guard, she didn't even wait until she was completely settled in, she wanted to train. I started with basic boxing, stances and easy punches, mixed in with good ol’ fashioned conditioning - both body and mind. 

She was a good student and unlike the men I trained what seemed like a lifetime ago, she didn't call me ‘sir’ nor was afraid to ask questions if she didn't quite get something. The meditation, something I still struggled with, came naturally to her and every morning as I stumbled in from patrol, I could find her in the dorms meditating in the sunshine. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. While I was a physical person, strong and tall, she was more adept at exercises of the mind. 

As for her conditioning, her asthma was an issue the first couple of weeks and I couldn't work her too hard because of it, especially with the shadowboxing drills that had her moving nonstop. I never pressured her beyond her limits, that was all her. Gail ran to the bare bones, often ending up collapsed spread-eagle while I sprinted upstairs for her inhaler. “I can go longer,” became like a catchphrase for her...little chick had the heart of a lion, but shitty lungs. Her ambition and drive, in almost everything I had her try, was more prevalent in her mind than her actual physical ability. Reminded me of when I was the scrawny Robin that didn't know when to quit. 

But after those weeks, she was pushing herself and finally, her body caught up with her mind’s hustle. After maybe twenty-five sessions, she could go two hours without much pause. Her punches were cleaner, her footwork improved and faster. She created angles, got creative with it. Her only disadvantage was her stamina, somewhat handicapped by her asthma still, but I trained her to work around it. Use those angles to hit key points on the body and do enough damage to survive. Conserve energy.

I added kickboxing and muay thai to her routine almost immediately, wrapping sheets around my forearms and legs as makeshift pads. When I was behind the pads, watching her drive knees, fling kicks, throw punches...and there was an anger I'd only seen in brief flashes before on her face and years on mine. 

I knew that anger. It came from something you just don't swallow in one go, like trauma...Stuff like that, you go through and once you’re out of the woods, you don’t have arms long enough to box with God. But you deal with it in small pieces over years, until it's gone. And the both of us? We had mounds to go. But you know what, we’re born fighters. We’ll box with God until we’re blue in the face, covered in blood and still insist that we can do this shit all day long. 

While she trained, I was working on that underprepared feeling. You see, after Fear Halloween, I had plenty of scrap metal from drones and old armor that I didn't know what to do with, along with my Arkham Knight armor I knew I would never touch again. It was just sitting in a massive heap in one corner of the engine bay and I was staring at it when I had the idea on what to do with it. 

I called Lucius to ship metalworking equipment, a grinder, and any remaining gear from Bruce's last batsuit to me. If my hunch about the coming war was right, it wasn't just me that would need protection. Once I had everything I needed under my roof I got to work perfecting and improving my armor, and designing armor for my brothers and spares. 

Dick’s was easiest to figure out. His strength was speed, agility, short but powerful strikes from midair or with great leverage. Emphasis on legs. So I used some of the lighter metal from Bruce's armor platings to protect his spine and joints, and I was toying around with fixing his gloves to conduct and store electricity from his escrima sticks for short blasts, incapacitation, or even defibrillation. 

Tim was tricky. His staff was his primary weapon and he was very gadget-happy; his biggest asset was his ability to be versatile, use the gadgets to solve the problem so he didn't have to waste physical strength to do it. He wasn't a natural fighter like me, nor an acrobat like Dick. He had to work at it, but he was a better detective. In the end, I worked out armor for his arms derived from my Arkham Knight designs, but added extra gadget utility in the form of two belts that crossed over his chest, connected in the back. In the center of his chest where these belts crossed was a hub, all he had to do was mash it and anyone he was trying to hold onto while gliding would be enveloped in a harness. It would take the burden off him.

The armor for Dick and Tim took me about four weeks to complete. After that, all I did for my own armor was reinforce the chest kevlar with metal plating that used to be on a drone, spray - painted the red bat on it, and added metal braces to my boots to help my ankle. The tune-up needed for that was just a single week. 

Gail added some input, like the shock gloves for Dick and the harness for Tim's belts. But other than that, she brought me water with ice every few hours and made sure the occasional burns I'd get on my hands were taken care of with antiseptic and bandages. She told me every time to be more careful. 

She told me to be careful every time I left for patrol, too. With good reason. While Barbara and Tim, who'd undergone surgery a few days after Dick left, were putting pressure on Falcone financially, I was on the streets shaking down his goons for information. For the scummiest among them, I gave them a choice, to give Falcone up or to bite a bullet. Most chose the bullet. The few, and the smart, abandoned the Don. 

Gail, one morning as she stitched a gash on my forearm, told me something that stuck out about the men that would betray a scary man in order to be spared by a scarier one. 

Her face held a pensive concentration as she spoke, “Cicero once said, ‘The foundation of justice is good faith’. If the men you threatened with death tonight thought for even a second that you wouldn't put a bullet between their eyes, the way they might with Batman, they would have begged for death.”

And they did. 

Even with the danger that might’ve followed from her leaving the firehouse, she insisted on seeing Bullock every other day for a few hours. So I'd take her over, drop her off. She would put on a record for him and talk to him, reporting some of the little things going on. What I'd taught her that day, a book she was reading, how the food in the hospital cafeteria sucked - she told him that he'd probably agree. 

Tim, in recovery from surgery, would keep an eye on her for me while I worked and researched. It took a bit of arm-twisting, but Tim and I reached a small truce. If he did this favor for me, I'd think about talking Barb into letting him do some more hands-on work. But I waited a good bit before I made the trip to the Clocktower.

For those weeks Gail and I were living together and I had something to fix, some project to work on, something to look forward to, I was the closest to content that I'd ever been. I had 3 hots and a cot, a warm shower, work to put down a crime lord that needed putting down, family in town, family abroad that I hoped came home safe, a home…

I actually had a home. For a while, the firehouse had been just where I crashed and kept my shit. But...with the new roommate, her books and music, the work I had downstairs...It became a symbol of safety. Home. I liked coming home to this place, and I liked coming home to more than patching myself up and going straight to bed. I found myself eager to sleep at night knowing tomorrow was another day. I found myself not dreading sleep because my nightmares were infrequent and their terror was diluted by something I never thought myself worthy of having...confidence in my life, and hope. 

It was nice there for a while, even had a couple of stray dogs stopping by every once in a while for table scraps I'd leave out for them. Yeah...it was nice there for a while...and then Dick shot me an update all the way from Hispaniola. He’ll be seeing Bruce in the flesh in a few days. That's when the restlessness started, sleepless nights where I'd lay awake in the hammock. 

I’ll tell you what I won’t be doing. I won’t be telling Bruce that I'd been sitting on my ass all this time. Even though I was busting my ass with the armor and extra patrols, it wouldn't be useful to him unless I had a lead. I needed to get something accomplished. Which was fine…

I do my best work under pressure.

….

The fumes coming off the bore cleaner I was using to clean my guns had me a bit groggy as I stuffed the rod down the barrel of one of my shotguns, waiting to see the end in the mag. I rubbed my eye on my forearm, wanting to go back to bed. The red numbers on the stove told me it was almost four in the morning. 

I couldn't sleep. It wasn't the usual nightmares or insomnia I brought upon myself to avoid nightmares. My jaw tightened involuntarily as I yanked the rod back out, before taking some gun oil on a cloth and rubbing everything down. It was something new that was keeping me up, and it was a tad scary that this upset me enough to forgo sleep. 

“You too, huh?” I nearly jumped out of my skin at her voice at the door, the cloth that’d been in my hand falling to the floor. 

Since Gail’s fingers were almost completely healed, she'd started braiding her hair into one long and blond rope that curled one shoulder. Her eyes were sharper with the sleepy squint she had, and she was barefoot, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a tank top showing the thicker limbs on her small frame. A result of her training. She padded closer, and I noticed she always looked where she walked, careful of every step. 

“No rest for the wicked, I guess,” I meant to smile, but all I could give her was a half-grimace. “Why are you still up?”

She didn't answer at first, going to put on the tea kettle she brought over from her apartment on to boil. Finally, she said, her eyes on the copper, “I'm nervous.”

“Don't blame you,” I couldn't tell if she was bothered by the cleaner fumes, but I opened the kitchen window behind me anyway. “Things could get messy fast. We'll need to be ready.”

“That's why I can't sleep,” She said, leaning against the counter as she waited for the kettle to whistle. “I feel ready. I feel good, strong. But I’ve got my doubts, and they’re so loud in my head...Am I out of my depth?”

My hands stopped on the gun and I looked at her. She met my gaze. I said slowly, “Doubt...Didn’t expect that coming from you.”

“Why not?” She bowed her head a little, somewhat shocked that I didn't really think of her as a doubting kind of person, and ashamed too.

“That’s usually my department,” I attempted to joke, but it fell flat, “I ask myself that constantly. Whether or not I'm out of my depth. After Halloween I thought redemption was impossible. I wanted it, but...back then, parts of me didn't want it and mostly didn't think I deserved it.” 

“What changed?” She asked me, her fingers playing with the end of her braid. 

I shot her a smirk. “I got kicked in the face by Dick Grayson.”

She snorted, her lips teasing a smile, “Why did he kick you?” 

“Because I told him I didn't deserve his forgiveness or his help,” I said, finishing off the shotgun as she put tea bags in two cups. “He told me I may be out of my mind, but I'm not out of my depth to want to turn it around.” 

The kettle whistled and in a minute, she was handing me a cup of tea before settling into the seat across from me on the new table. I muttered a thanks. 

“Did he ever feel like that?” Her voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear her. 

“Dick?”

She shook her head. “No...Batman. Bruce Wayne.”

I sipped from my cup to avoid answering right away, the hot tea scorching my tongue but I didn't much care. For some reason, thinking about this hurt. “I dunno...when I was his Robin, if I ever noticed that he was unsure of himself it was probably by accident. He was always...confident, but...uh....” I swallowed, her eyes on me. “Maybe, I dunno.”

“You don't like talking about him,” She noted, peering at me over her cup, “You'll talk all day about music, literature, art, your brothers and Barbara...but you don't like talking about him. I've heard more about Alfred than about Bruce.” 

“You don't like talking about your dad,” I said back, my nerves jittering under my skin. I knew she was right, I just didn't want to admit it. “Besides, I don't really wanna talk about the guy who didn't kill the garbage that tortured me for a year.”

She frowned, and leaned forward a little, the light above the table lightening the edges of her bangs. “My father neglected me for years. Wanted nothing to do with me but make a monthly contribution to child support...” Goosebumps raised up on my arms when she took my hand. “Your father loves you, Jason. And look at what you've accomplished. He’ll be proud.”

I almost wanted to say ‘I wouldn't know’. I withdrew my hand from hers to stand up and carry the dirty bore patches to the trash bin. In the back of my mind, the words in that letter Bruce wrote me ran over and over. You deserved a good home and people that love you. I just wish I had told you how much. 

Yeah, me too. 

It terrified me to face him again after all this time. Not that he would be angry, but...even after all these years, some things never change. Like me waiting for the ‘good job’ I knew I wasn't going to get. Like me waiting for his disappointment that I didn't really see from him but figured he was anyway. I didn't hate him...I didn't. Not anymore. But I'm not sure what replaced the hatred, save for a remoteness from him. Like a huge chasm was between us and neither of us knew how to bridge the gap. 

“He wasn't my father,” I said, leaning against the wall by the trash can with my back to her, “But he and Alfred were the closest I had. I lived for them to be proud of me. All I wanted was to do the job as best as I could...but even in the beginning, I knew that the criminals were getting worse. More and more sadistic, more and more sick and twisted...especially Joker.” My voice was shaking, but I went on, “It was always him that shook me to the core, before the torture...because out of all of them, he was just...unhinged. Bruce knew it too...but he kept going. Kept playing the game the way he fixed the rules...until I stopped playing.”

I scratched the back of my neck, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard her chair squeak as she stood, walking over to put a warm hand on my shoulder. “I stopped playing too. Six years ago.”

She sighed, her eyes darting to her feet. “I'm going to say this, you can hear it and tell me to screw off if you feel that way.” She met my eyes, a compassion in them I hadn't anticipated with this subject. “Even though you've got reservations about seeing Bruce, he's still an important part of your life. And though I don't know him, haven't met him, I'm sure you're an important part of his. He forgave you. He saw your redemption before you did…” 

She scrubbed a hand over her eyes, “What I'm failing to say here is that you should talk with him. Go see him when he gets back.” She yawned, and half-turned towards the door, throwing words over her shoulder in a stern voice, “If my father gave an eighth of the damn yours does, I'd talk with the man.”

She left the room, and I heard her soft footsteps down the hall, listening to them as I thought about that. There were some things she didn't know, like the video tape Joker sent him. Like how Joker manipulated me into hating Batman by jabbing Tim in my side. How Bruce couldn't figure out where I was. 

But Gail had a point. I owed Bruce. He brought me back from jumping off the cliff. He reminded me who I was. I didn’t see it then, but hindsight’s 20/20. I guess it's inevitable. I can’t avoid him forever... Even if I'd rather hot glue my eyes shut.


	39. Paralogue 2: All The World's Saints

I am not in love with Abigail Byron. I'm not. This isn't some romcom, where it's funny or brought on by a happy coincidence. Neither Gail nor I were prone to the emotion of ‘happy’, and I'm pretty sure we didn't believe in coincidence. There was no chance of us getting together at the end of the movie before the credits roll. Happy endings weren't in the cards for people like me.

But I'd have to be a sad fool lying to myself if some tiny part of me didn't hope. Maybe it was just the proximity of being roommates, warping my brain into imagining something that wasn't there. Maybe it was just my need to screw things up with anyone who ever cared for me. Maybe it was me getting attached even though I had a million reasons why it wouldn't be good for either of us if I got attached. But I knew one thing...before, I noticed small changes anybody might have gotten. Now? I started really looking.   
I could tell how much sleep she'd gotten, and took small steps to make sure she got as much as possible, like not clamoring like a bull in a China shop when I got home after patrol so I didn't wake her up. I watched her breathing even more now than I did before. When she'd been thinking about bad memories or feeling shitty, her breathing grew more shallow. Shorter breaths. Angry, they quicken. Happy, longer and easier breaths. I counted time some nights when we laid on the floor reading by the seconds between her inhales and exhales. 

I ain’t trying to wax poetic or nothing, but my feelings for her fell into me like the first snow after weeks of teasing cold. The softest of snowflakes, the kind you watch land into your palm before they disappear - slicking to you. Then the weeks went by, and the flakes got bigger and heavier. I was ankle-deep in it. 

Watching her sign her name on the monitor in the supermarket check-out with a tic-tac-toe hash, drawing three circles and a line through them like she’d won and then smirking when I laughed. “What? You’ve never won tic-tac-toe in three moves?” 

Knees-deep. 

She loved doing laundry, something she insisted upon helping with. “You already cook for me, and I’m not going to be a leech,” She had said. She used the squatted machines in the spare dormitories that I used for storing ammo, knives, swords, other weapons and explosives. I'd be sitting on the floor running a whetstone over a sai, and I’d see her. She'd be over there in front of the dryer, folding my ripped shirts that's been through bombings and her favorite comfy sweater in the same load like it was nothing. 

Gail had the art of losing yourself in a task mastered when she did this. Her arms would spread and close as she folded jeans, and if a sock got on the floor, she'd snatch it up with her toes - flick her leg, sending the sock into the air and catch it in midflight over her shoulder. She'd hum or sing quietly, taking extra care and sometimes just holding white sheets to her face to smell the detergent. If the clothes were fresh outta the dryer and still warm, she'd wrap them over herself. I shit you not, she's brought down warm, clean socks for me when I was working late.

Hips-deep.

On nights when my terrors came for me while I slept, she was always up to the challenge of helping me calm down armed with a warm washcloth and occasionally a cup of hot green tea. She did just as she had that first night when she told me I was worth it. That I deserved for people to be good to me. And I was grateful to her. 

But other nights when she'd wake up screaming bloody murder so loud it shattered my heart to hear it, I would take her to the room with her vinyl in it - sometimes carrying her because she was scared stiff. I learned how to handle vinyl records quickly from her, holding them by the very edges and concentrating on maximum grip with minimum number of fingers. I'd put on something slow, something new each time - rarely repeating. She would be sitting on the floor with her knees up to her chest, her face bent forward to rest on her legs and hidden from view by her hair. I moved to sit behind her every time, cross-legged. With clumsy scarred fingers that shook, I detangled her hair before braiding and un-braiding the golden locks. Over and over. Eventually she'd lift her head and, probably because it felt good, she leaned back unconsciously. We stayed like that until the record was finished, and by then, she was okay. 

Chest-deep. 

She couldn't sleep during a storm, either. Storms in Gotham happened frequently, and even more often in the spring - summer lull. She'd stay up, pace the halls wrapped in blankets so they'd trail the floor behind her like a bridal train, and stared out of the window, unflinching as each flash of lightning blazed the sky white for an instant. Boom after boom of thunder, flash after flash of lightning, until the clouds wrung themselves dry, she stayed awake. But it wasn't because she was afraid, no. 

Gail was young, but she's seen enough to know when a storm walked her way with a smile and knew to steer clear. She knew how to weather hurricanes. She knew how to save herself. She knew the first names of every storm she's ever met. I knew she did because I hardly slept during storms too. I knew she did because we recognized each other as storms in a league of our own, determined to tear each other apart just to see who'd win. It was entirely perfect that her nickname was Gail. 

Neck-deep. And by this time, I knew I wasn't going anywhere. I knew that this was no passing thing. No quick snow showers. I was getting buried. 

And one night, Gail avalanched me.  
…...  
It was around two in the morning, and my hair was completely dry, still passing on a shirt. I'd done the dishes, the plates laying back in the cupboard dry. I was almost done with a peach that I may or may not have stolen from one of my neighbors’ tiny peach trees they kept on their windowsill. It was as easy as using a line-launcher to zipline twenty feet down an alley from my kitchen window and hang upside-down, picking a few of the little babies. 

I loved peaches, because the juice that ran down my chin and my elbow was delicious to lick off after I’d discarded the pit. I was in the middle of doing that after I’d basketball jump-shotted the pit into my trash bin, drinking a pool of juice in my palm. I leaned against my kitchen window, sucking the last bit of juice and the trail down my thumb when I spied someone in the doorway through my fingers. 

She had the thin blankets draped over her shoulders like a loose robe, the sweatpants discarded since the oversize shirt was like a dress on her and the socks with the tops rolled down. Her face reminded me of neopolitan ice cream; the splash of freckles on her face, her pale skin and the flush that came to her cheeks. Her arms were hugged around herself. 

I brought my hand away from my mouth as we stared at each other for a second, before her eyes darted to the radio that I’d forgotten about completely, “I love this song, I knew I heard it when I woke up…” 

“Did I wake you up?” 

“No, I just got up,” She smiled, and I knew she lied. “A minute ago.” 

“Ah, uh…” I pointed to the bowl I’d put the peaches in, “Hungry?” 

She wasn’t listening to me, entering the room and turning up the radio. “I have this album on vinyl...Sinatra…” Her lips parted. 

“Put your dreams away, for another day…” Blue Eyes was singing, as she hummed along. I walked to the sink, rinsing the peach juice off. 

“And I will take their place in your heart…” Dear God, I loved old music like this. 

After I was finished, flicking water off my fingertips and rubbing them on my pants, there was a cold tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there she was, holding her hand out. Her deep blue eyes were full of an earnest calm that I only saw in the night sky anymore and her smile was a promise that she knew she likely couldn't keep but would try to for my sake.

I couldn't help the grin that flashed across my face. I ran a hand through my hair, before taking hers and tentatively, shyly placing the other at the curve of her waist like I had at the charity event. 

Because she did make me nervous, but I'd be stupid if I didn't dance with her anyway. She made my spine straighten, my mouth tighten into almost-smiles, and I knew it shouldn't mean anything. I was looking at her now trying to figure out if this, this dance, was meaning anything to her. Maybe I was hoping it didn't, so she wouldn't get into more trouble even though that was moot by now...or maybe I was hoping it didn't so I could persuade myself into reeling back with my own feelings.

We were friends. That's it. That's as far as we want to take it. Really good friends. That slowdance with each other. Yep. 

And then she stepped closer, laying her hands on my bare, scarred, ugly chest and nestling her head in the crook of my neck. Now it was my blood rushing to my cheeks. She was humming still, I could feel the vibrations on my skin. I idly played with her hair with my other hand as we danced slow. 

“When your dreams at night, fade before you,” I'd never dreamed in my entire life that someone like this would happen to me; I held her hand and whipped her out like we were old timey dance partners, a boyish smirk to my lips that matched her childlike goofiness as she tucked her arms in like a ballerina. Her robe flailed out like a shift dress, her arms coming out and I laughed as she theatrically curtsied, then rolled back in with my arm. 

My arm curled around her and then we both stopped, her back to my chest; my hand at her waist slid across her stomach and the one in hers moved to cross her chest, holding her other shoulder. My cheek came to the side of hers, and I remembered that I forgot to shave. I was probably scratching the shit out of her face. I’m an idiot. Human trainwreck over here. Her hair tickled my torso, my neck. Almost like the morning after we met, when I got lost in her for the very first time as she examined the gash on my neck that’s a pink scar now...only this instance I knew I was lost. Really, really lost. 

“Then I'll have the right to adore you…” In an insecure, selfish, stupid moment I thought about how ugly my scars was, how I must look to her, and I had a powerful urge to get a damn shirt on. How could she want to touch me? 

But she stayed there, the back of her neck on my collarbone and my arms around her setting my skin on fire. Her hands covered mine. Her eyelashes tickled my throat as she opened and closed them. Somewhere in my swimming head, I asked again if this was right...if this meant anything. Or if we were just people sharing a moment. 

Without thinking, I kissed under her ear and then came to my senses, letting go, realizing I was hyperventilating. My hands left hers, and I watched her hands stay where they’d been, then fall to her sides. She didn’t turn around to find out what was wrong right away, but she did step to where she was sideways, her left shoulder facing me. She asked without seeing me, “Jason?” 

Before I could stop myself, I panted, “I’m sorry.” 

The song dwindled, and my heart was pounding, my blood slamming in my ears almost deafening to me. She thumbed the radio volume lower to where it was before she’d come in, saying steadily, “If I made you uncomfortable…”

“No, no…” I shook my head, pushing my fingers through my hair and closing my eyes tight. Light-headed.“This is me. All me. I can’t...I...I just can’t.” But I want to.

“I understand,” She met my eyes then, her hair golder from the dim light over the stove, “Do you need me to go?” 

I know it’s not what I want, but it’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s safe for her. And probably me, too. “For now. Go back to sleep...I’ll get you up in the morning for training.” 

Her lips were a hard line, then, surprising me, she hugged me whole-heartedly. “I’m sorry...Night.” 

“N-night.” 

And then she left the way she came. I stood there. Numb. 

After thirty minutes, I went to make sure she was still in the building and there she was, sleeping on her back in the dormitories. Her fingers splayed on her pillow, the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed. I was in the shadows, and there she was in the moonlight shining in. 

I never wanted to be her friend. And now the mistake was set into stone, and I couldn’t bring myself to chisel it back out. 

We don’t talk about this for a long time. Pretend like it never happened, like it shouldn’t have happened. It didn’t make things awkward, no. But...something about being alone with her gave me ideas. Bad ones involving her staying in Gotham longer than intended. So I avoided that as much as I could. 

But every once in a while, I’ll steal a glance at her and she’ll steal one from me...and I know she’s thought about it. And I always look away, but...for many nights, I’ll wake up covered in sweat, my body on fire, and gasping for breath, her name choking me. I’ll freeze myself in cold showers, go back to bed grumbling at myself for being so fucking stupid. 

I’d lay in bed for hours, cursing everything about her. Damn her eyes, making it impossible to focus sometimes, and her hands - she touches everything like she wasn’t going to see it again. Her blonde hair was the exact color of sunlight, and my ‘sunshine’ nickname for her was fitting. And dammit, did she have to be so short? She was just so small, I could pick her up with one arm and have her sitting on my shoulders all the time if I had the nerve; she was scrappy and small, but her training had strengthened her limbs in just the right way, giving dimension to her arms and legs and torso, and that shouldn’t be kinda hot, but -NO. No no no no no. I needed to get a grip. 

Gail was gonna be the death of me.


	40. Paralogue 3: Just Wearing Different Shades of the Same War Paint

You know that saying: cats come when they feel like it, not when they're told? I never got that expression really until I started tracking down Catwoman. 

One thing I could be sure of was that she wasn't in Gotham. We would have heard about it, maybe run into her in one of the museums in the older parts of the city. I learned her pattern when I was Robin; it's changed in some ways over the years with new technology making it easier to steal, but the skeleton was the same. 

She'd hit companies with ties to animal abuse, deforestation, pollution, domestic issues, and human trafficking as her drop-everything targets. She'd hit hard, stealing millions and sometimes visiting the board for private facial rearrangements. After that, cat motifs drew her eyes. To my knowledge, most of those were already in her possession or were destroyed in Arkham City when Two-Face blew up her place.

Lastly, places like the East End of Gotham that were under her protection. She used to be a sex worker, and some say that she takes the money from heists and gives some of it to ‘working girls’ looking for a new start. But in the past seven months, she's been seen in similar places in Metropolis, Bludhaven, Central City, Star City, Gateway City, Keystone City, and others. All with reputations for sex work and strip clubs. Most recently, it's been Star City - in the slums near the Star Stadium where the Thunder plays basketball. 

I asked Barbara to get in touch with her people over there to see if Selina had digs anywhere, patrol until they found her. I, with the daily fights and violent drug deal interventions, was a bit busy to go on stakeout. Tim was still benched. 

About a week later, Barb had something for me. Apparently, this pal of hers, Dinah, managed to find her. Canary had an address, but gave me a warning: she'd seen Selina claw the shit out of a guy's face and chest. She told me not to push her too far, that Selina might not be too happy to see me. Or anyone. 

“Ever have a cat, lady?” 

She said no. 

“Best way to get an angry cat to calm down is to drug it to sleep, ma’am. Appeal to its curiosity by showing them the bowl, let them glare at you as they drink the cream...and they drop like a brick.”  
……..  
It didn’t quite seem like it belonged to her when I first walked in. The heavy and strange smell of cats and sugar-sweet flowers overwhelmed my nose. What I noticed was that almost every overhanging beam of the ceiling was thickly roped in vines, hanging baskets, smaller potted plants and were the paths of the several cats of all colors stepping delicately amongst the leaves. Several glass bottles of milk were lined up on the island in the kitchen, a snow-white Persian sprawled out boredly with them. I silently shut the door behind me, listening, but beyond the meowing, I couldn’t hear a thing as to who was home. 

A kettle was on the stove, almost whistling. I dipped a hand under my jacket, my fingers finding the familiar grip of my gun. I didn’t know if she’d fight, but I did know what alley cats did when cornered. 

Near an orchid that was on the counter was a tiny tabby cat, licking herself and she hadn’t seen me yet. I reached a hand to it, before it saw me and flinched back, spine arched and hissing. 

I frowned, trying to get her to quiet, until I heard a smooth voice call from further into the apartment - one I hadn’t heard in years, “Precious, is that you? What is it?” 

The tabby cat’s ears pricked up, and heard high heels clicking closer. I stood still, waiting until I saw Selina Kyle in the flesh saunter into sight from the connecting hallway. 

At first glance, she didn’t appear to have aged a day. No age-tattletaling lines at the corners of her eyes, or smile lines around her mouth. Her hair was shoulder-length and curled around her face like a black halo, like she’d just forgotten it was there. Her eyes were a luminous green and commanded attention without a trace of makeup, and she raked my form in a way that made me self-conscious. She wore matching white silk shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, her black bra stark under the material and on her pale, sun-starved skin. And a pair of black heels with red soles that looked like they should be in the window of some store. 

She took one long gander at me, then her bare lips spread in a wide smile that made me think of the Cheshire Cat. Maybe that was the idea. She bit into the green apple that was in her hand, loudly taking off a chunk in her teeth. 

Selina spoke around it, hoisting the jet-black cat in her arms higher on her hip with the other hand, “Well, didn’t expect a visit from the new big bad in town.” The cat winked a yellow eye at me. Her mouth twisted, “Red Hood. Heard a lot about you…” She shook her head slowly, a light laugh. “You may be batting for the wrong team with your methods, but you’ll still dive into the fire for any sorry sucker...or maybe you don't do the team thing. Maybe you're walking the line, working both sides.”

There's the bowl. 

“And you?” I crossed my arms, hardly in any danger I wasn't apt to handle. “I heard about a couple of clothing stores that sell fur clothes catching on fire spontaneously, a string of burglaries involving businessmen that order deforestation...I'd say I'm not the only one a little confused about my morals.”

“Watch it, trigger fingers,” She only grinned wider. “So. You one of Bruce's boys, or somebody new?”

“You don't recognize me?” I fought a smile as I tapped the back of my hood, and used something to clue her in as I took it off, “...Captain Hairballs?”

Selina froze, even to the point where I wasn't sure she was breathing. The black cat in her arms leapt to the floor, sauntering away. 

You see, back in the day when I was Robin, she and I weren't exactly what you'd call close, but one thing we did agree on was that Batman's methods were slowly becoming obsolete. She had never seen my face then, even when I went to her apartment - this one - to rehearse my argument with her before I took on the old man. Selina never once thought my ideas were foolish, impractical or wrong. She thought I was the, and I quote, “most sensible bird boy” she's ever met. But I suppose that was before she met my Replacement.

And of course, I couldn't help myself by endlessly teasing her with cat jokes. And of course she'd make bird jokes. And of course, Batman would resist the urge to roll his eyes and separate us. 

“I...Kid, I thought you were dead,” She said, exasperated. She walked up to me, took my arms with the affection of a mother finding her long-lost son. “You really fleshed out, hmm? You're not the scrawny punk anymore...Definitely not the scrawny Robin anymore.”

I let her hold my hands away from my torso and get a good look at me, still holding the apple in one hand. Her eyes, inevitably, focused on the brand on my cheek, and they flickered with something like she was remembering. She bit from the apple and chewed the piece, thinking. 

She swallowed, and started talking with an odd solemnity to her smooth voice, “I remember there was a long time when he wouldn't talk, you weren’t with him and I thought maybe he'd forbid you from going out crusading with him for what you said about crime. I confronted him…” She didn't sound teary, she wasn't the kind of woman to choke up; all she did was frown and she stared past me at a small potted cactus against the backsplash of her countertop. “I asked him that he can't just lock you up if he doesn't agree with you...He just stood there, like he was dazed or in a trance or something. And then he just fell to his knees.”

I was listening to all of this with Alfred’s letters in the back of my mind. I hoped Bruce hadn't shown her the tape Joker sent him, but if he did, I didn't want her to pity me. But from what little I knew about her life before Catwoman, I think she'd be the last person to pity me. 

“He started shaking,” She said, turning away and going back into her sitting room. She sprawled out on the purple couch and I took the armchair by the window. A calico immediately leapt into my lap, and I idly rubbed her belly as Selina continued, “Not crying, just shaking in his shoulders with his fists clenched. Shivering, and when you get used to him standing there a complete statue...it takes you by surprise to see him move so much. And I knew something happened to you. Something you couldn't come back from. I'd see him shake like that again after what happened to Batgirl...and again with Joker, for God knows what...and again with Talia…” Her eyes twitched a bit at the name. “And again...and again...Sometimes, with him, it's like he’ll never stop. He’ll keep blaming himself. He’ll keep doing what he does to get the anger out of his bones, even though he knows he's got plenty more.”

It was in her eyes, the stillness of her fingers on the half-eaten apple. I realized something, “Selina, are you alright?”

“Everybody's gone,” She said flatly, before she looked over at me and I knew in an instant that the reason her exploits had been so hard to find was because there were none. She'd been here for months. In this apartment. “Ivy, Harley, Bruce...Everyone I've ever…” Her knuckles whitened. “They're all gone.”

“You love him.” And there's the glare from the cat.

Say what you want about honor among thieves, but Selina never lied to me before. “Love's a strong word.”

“Not really,” I said, my eyes on the purring calico in my lap. “Did he tell you what happened to me?” 

“Not in so many words,” She answered, picking out a piece of apple skin out of her teeth with a sharp nail. Her eyes were transfixed out the window, where Wayne Tower shone distantly like a lighthouse neither of us wanted to sail to at the moment. “He told me that you were gone, and the next time I saw him beat the tar outta Joker, how hard he hit him, I knew that the clown had killed you.” 

“Well…” I pursed my lips, hunting for words. The cat meowed loud when I’d stopped petting her, pawing at my hand until I started again. “It’s a bit more than that...I’m here.” 

“And that twisted son of a bitch is dead,” She commented, throwing the spent apple over her head and it landed right in the trash by the counter like she’d done it a thousand times. “Should take some comfort in that, at least.” 

“That’s...kinda why I’m here,” I said, leaning forward and putting the cat gently on the ground, scratching her back before she grumbled, jumping onto Selina. 

Selina smiled at her calico, using both hands and carefully raking her nails down the cat’s back. The cat plopped down right on her belly, purring. “Oh?” 

“I’m asking you to trust me on this...he’s back,” I began, watching her as she slowly glared at me with confusion and she searched my face for any sign that I’d be lying. She found none. 

“You’re kidding me.” 

I retold her the story of the past few weeks, focusing mainly on the major highlights, like the suicide victim that was hung outside Gail’s (I’d said she was a friend of mine, and Selina curled her lips at that) window, Clark coming by and the charity event attack. I noticed that every time I mentioned Carmine Falcone, she stiffened ever-so-minutely. I understood; if my father didn’t die in prison and was out throwing people in harm’s way, I’d be cringing too. And probably killing him. When I mentioned Bruce, she didn’t react in any way - like she had believed all along that the old man was alive. 

“You want my help,” She said at last, crossing her legs. 

I shrugged, “Nightwing’s in the Caribbean trying to find Bruce and it’ll be another couple of weeks until Robin’s back in action, if anything - I need someone to lighten the patrol load, steal intel, infiltrate if needed and back me up on missions if possible.” 

“I’m a little disappointed,” Selina mused, feigning hurt in her voice and laying the back of her hand on her forehead like some damsel in a play, “Once upon a time, I was a valued informant and now I’ve been reduced to a lowly relief worker, only around when you need me - which is always.” 

I rolled my eyes, uttering a dry laugh. “We do need you, Selina, but you're not just relief. You'll be our best chance to maneuver ahead of Falcone.”

Her cat licked her nose as she said, “And if I have reservations against killing my sperm donor?”

I’d just been wondering about that. Carmine was Selina’s father, though any chance at a familial kinship died years ago. She grew up on the streets thanks to him, and consequently, her earlier professions came out of financial insecurity the same way my...career in larceny did. I caught her eyes, finding a shark-like glint in them like she had been waiting for eons for me to ask her, “We would have to find someone else, maybe get Dick back before he can find Bruce.” I paused, squinting at her. “Do you have reservations?”

The corner of her mouth curled upwards. “None whatsoever.”

Like. A. Brick.


	41. Truth or Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick finally finds Bruce, and ends up learning more than he ever wanted to know.

“Don't the best of them bleed it out

While the rest of them peter out

Truth or consequence, say it aloud

Use that evidence, race it around

There goes my hero

Watch him as he goes

There goes my hero

He's ordinary”

  * Foo Fighters, “My Hero”



* * *

 

“ _Three wise men of Gotham_ …” Dick sang the nursery rhyme under his breath, flattening himself to the roof of the resort hotel in the shadows and the smell of sea salt in the breeze that slipped its cold fingers through his loose black hair. The moonlight illuminated Anguilla’s harbor, the pale reflection twinkling in the water and the soft sounds of the water washing the shore could be heard over the wind.

 

He tapped the edge of his domino mask, his vision zoomed in on the seventh story of a hotel a few streets over. There was a balcony he could get to, where a couple of pool chairs had been laid out, “ _Went to sea in a bowl_ … _If the bowl had been stronger, my song would have been longer.”_

 

The way Starfire’s inquisitive voice asked the question in his earpiece made his lips curl into a grin, “What are you singing? It’s beautiful.”

 

Dick could faintly see her flying high in the clouds, a streak of red following her patterns. His eyes in the sky. And his backup. He answered, his hand going to his belt for his grappler, “Nursery rhyme my parents taught me as a kid.” Once he had the gadget in his hand, he said, “Okay, babe. Going in. Radio silence until you hear from me.”

 

“Be careful, Dick,” She said, and he watched her soar over the harbor, ducking down to the water to run her hand along the waves.

 

“Don’t worry, I will,” He promised, glad for bringing her along. He thought to himself, _Besides...it's just Bruce._

 

Dick had never been particularly good at this: coming home. To him, coming home reminded you of what and why you left in the first place, which made it that much harder to work up the nerve to return...he imagined it’d be the same for Bruce too. Bruce left because Gotham needed someone more than what Batman was to defend her now, he was passing the torch...but when the Batman was needed again, Bruce must then return.

 

Dick had to remind himself that while it felt like _he_ was the one going home, it was actually the other way round. His home was coming with him to Gotham. Bruce Wayne had never been a warm person, and Dick knew exactly why he left him in the first place when he became a man...and Bruce had never gone to bring Dick back home...but somewhere in Dick’s subconscious, he knew, he had always suspected that someday it’d be him going out to find Bruce again.

 

He readied his grappler, he rose to a crouch and eventually stood straight on the edge of the building, looking out to make his path to that balcony. In the end, Dick closed his eyes and let himself fall.

 

A brief moment passed before he opened them again and grappled to another building, hitting the accelerator so it propelled him past the edge - into the air. He landed, the momentum launching him forward and he held back a giddy laugh as he ran towards another gap, pounding the pavement harder before jumping over the nine-foot gap. He tucked and rolled, before straightening into a run again.

 

The wind howling in his ears, he saw Starfire coming in his direction until she flew just above him like a guardian angel, and her scent drafted through the wind to him from her long mane of red hair, fruity and sweet. Dick grinned from ear to ear; Goodness, was she beautiful. He was approaching another gap, and he was preparing to grapple up to the balcony, but Starfire decided to assist him, grabbing his hand and lifting him off the ground.

 

Giggling a bit at his surprise and how he grasped at her hand with both of his, she carried him up to the balcony and slowly hovered to let him touch his feet to the white stone floor. He shook his head at her at how she easily could amaze him, who lived with the extraordinary for years before he met her. She winked and soared higher, leaving him to business.

 

He watched her go, leaning against the railing of the balcony, and when she was out of his sight, he turned around to face the sliding door. Dick felt that pit in his stomach again, eating up his insides. It’s been a long time since Bruce left Gotham. The moonlight at his back cut out his silhouette against the pale blue curtains just inside, completely enclosing the room to his view, could see his reflection on the glass.

 

He took a deep breath, but before he could reach out for the door, the curtains on the other side of the glass were pulled away, along with the door.

 

“You need to work on your surveillance,” The deepness of his voice rang in Dick’s ears after going without hearing it for so long, save for that message on the BatComputer. There was no trace of sleepiness in that voice, only a light scolding mixed with a veil of sarcasm. “I could see you all the way from here. Man lying on a roof in a black and electric blue jumpsuit on white stone, not suspicious at all.”

 

Dick was stunned. Not only at how plainly Bruce talked to him now, as if no time had passed at all, but how the older man looked. He wore no shirt, thick new scars lined pink against his pale chest. But the first thing he noticed was Bruce’s beard, squinting at the black facial hair that blanketed the other man’s jaw line and curved around his mouth.

 

It was somewhere between the beard, the new scars and the nonchalant way Bruce raised a sleek, black eyebrow at him that Dick exhaled. He shook his head again, blinking a few times to make sure this was real. This was actually happening. After regarding each other for a few minutes, Bruce stepped to the side to allow his son room to come in.

 

Finally, Dick recomposed himself, trying to appear unflappable. “Just checking to see if you were rusty.”

 

Dick moved past Bruce into the hotel room, shutting the door behind him. It wasn’t too extravagant; a white couch with a woven back, a flat-screen TV, a small kitchen in the corner, and a hallway that led to a few doors in the back of the suite. Dick touched a plant on a table by the windows, real petals on the flowers.

 

“You used the BatComputer to find me,” Bruce reasoned, settling into a woven armchair on the far side of the couch. Dick tried not to see how Bruce winced as his knees bent, or how he had kept his habit of always putting his back to the wall when he sat down.

 

“Yes,” Dick answered, leaning against the back of the couch, “Followed the coordinates the Joker file was to be sent to, should it ever be accessed by anyone other than me.”

 

“Who’s the alien?” Bruce asked, and although it was minor interest in his voice, Dick felt a jab in his side.

 

“None of your business,” Dick said flatly, feeling his patience wear thin already and got to the whole purpose of him being here, “I came to warn you. Joker, or I guess the new Joker, is involved with the League of Assassins. They’ve got Harley, and they’re planning something with him...it’s not Nyssa Raatko in charge, they’re more al Ghul loyalists. The war is going to Gotham...”

 

“What makes you think that?” Bruce’s eyebrows furrowed and the crows’ feet around his eyes became more pronounced. Regal. Scrutinizing.

 

Dick chose his next words carefully, not because of the subject matter, oh no...it was because of who he was about to bring up into the conversation. He watched his mentor closely as he said the words, “Jason was shot six weeks ago.”

 

He didn’t get to see much of Bruce’s reaction to this news beyond the jaw dropping slightly, anger rising to his eyes for a split second before a sound of something wooden dropping to the floor was heard from behind Dick, in the hallway.

 

When he turned, he saw Alfred Pennyworth in nightclothes covering his mouth with one hand, and a wooden baseball bat was on the ground at his feet. His glasses glared the moonlight away from his blue eyes,“Master Richard, is that you? And what on earth did you just say?”

 

“Yeah, it’s me…” Dick said, wanting to run to hug Alfred after how long they’d gone without seeing one another, but the way he stood, the butler’s posture...he wanted an answer to his second question before he would hear anything else. He could only see Bruce out of his peripheral vision, but he felt the anger radiating from his form.

 

He hesitated too long, Alfred asked firmly, “Master Richard, answer me. What did you _just say_?”

 

“Jason was shot,” Dick repeated, sighing, “In a Falcone warehouse protecting a boy scout troop and me.” He held up a hand before they started to say anything, and as he explained, their faces shifted - Bruce’s more subtly - into that of pure parental horror, “Wait, let me finish...he was shot with a bullet that injected a modified blend of Joker toxin and Scarecrow’s fear toxin, the kind he dispersed at Halloween last year. He was laid up in bed three days, screaming, bleeding from his eyes, ears, mouth, nose. I raced him back to Barbara and with her and Tim, we saved his life.”

 

“Dear God…” Alfred exhaled, a hand on the back of Bruce’s chair for support.

 

Bruce himself...Dick wasn’t sure if the predominant emotion on his face was sadness or rage, because both battled among his features. The anger was present in the tightness of his jaw, his lips in a hard line, and the sadness was purely in the eyes, in the clear blue of them. His hands were clutching the armchair until his knuckles were white, and Dick thought it would snap apart under his fingers. Something told Dick that Bruce didn’t have to imagine Jason screaming, he could see it in the shine that rimmed Bruce’s eyes.

 

“It’s all connected,” Dick told them quietly, “The Joker and the League of Assassins are connected through Falcone...Falcone’s supposed to be dead, but he’s been brought back to life. We’ve got an informant who’s helping us with details about taking him down.”

 

At the unspoken reminder to Dick of Jason’s newfound friendship in Abigail Byron, he wanted to shout at Bruce. Shout at him in excitement and ecstatic joy in what Jason’s been able to accomplish in the last handful of months. In his waking moments throughout the long trek to his mentor, Dick already had the exact speech to use.

 

_He’s come so far, Bruce, can you believe it?! You’d be so proud of him. His...methods are actually working, I’m surprised. It’s not for me but it’s hard to argue with his results. And he’s made a friend outside the family. She’s actually really good for him, I think. If he says that he’s not into her, don’t believe it. He is. She’s...actually as complicated as he is, morally and psychologically. She’s a tough person to figure out, but I think Jason’s willing to do it. She...she’s the reason Falcone’s supposed to be dead, but she didn’t do it on purpose, Bruce. She didn’t. It was an accident._

 

And that’s where he always stopped in his head, too. Dick knew the only person who would be as happy as he was would be Alfred, regardless of whether Abigail meant to kill Falcone or not. Of course, Alfred would worry for Jason’s safety, always, but both would know there was nothing to fear. He knew that his pride and joy would fall on slightly deaf ears with Bruce. To Bruce, a killer for a friend is an enemy in disguise. For Dick, he knew Gail wasn’t a liability - to the mission or Jason, but he still held a wary caution that only a cold prudence suggested to him.

 

Dick thanked his luck when Bruce didn’t ask the question he didn’t want to answer, “The League of Assassins are working out of the Mayan ruins of Guatemala, and so far, the activity of the base they’ve got there is entirely defensive. They’re not planning a siege or an offensive, just to lay low.”

 

“Have you figured out who’s leading them yet?” Dick asked, wanting desperately to know the answer and it was urging him to bite his nails, which were raw on his thumbs.

 

Bruce loosened his grip on the chair. “From what I've gathered, it's al Ghul loyalists behind it but if there _is_ a leader, I haven't seen them. Either the leader is elsewhere or there isn't one.”

 

“This is exactly what I'm saying,” Dick said, “Everything is coming to Gotham, and with the players involved…”

 

He bit his cheek, before he dealt the final card he'd worked to keep to his chest, “...we need you, Bruce. We need you to return to us, and to Gotham. We're outgunned here.”

 

Alfred took a step forward, and both the butler and the Batman were staring at him like there was something on his face.

 

Dick bit his cheek harder, and the silence broke into pieces as a noise left him. To his utter shock at himself, it was a noise like a sob. “I'm barely keeping us together. Jason getting shot scared me bad...Tim's recovering from a broken arm right now, Barbara's working overtime to clean up my messes because I can't be everywhere at once...Harvey Bullock’s in the hospital because his legs were blown off at an event where Jason, Tim and me were supposed to keep everyone safe. God dammit,” He crumpled, clenching his fists against his head till everything hurt. He held his hands at his sides and he turned away from them, his pride not allowing for them to see him cry, “I'm sorry I can't be you. I'm sorry I won't be you.”

 

Behind Dick, Bruce felt as if a thousand invisible hooks under his skin were imploring him to do something, but his body was lead, he couldn't get himself to move. Alfred felt no such sensation, and promptly took Dick's shoulder, before warmly hugging the young man like a father hugs a son.

 

“You did what you could,” Bruce said lowly, hoping that words could offer the comfort he wanted to give his first Robin, his first companion. “That's all I asked for you to do when I left. Protect Bludhaven, continue to do the work _we started together._ Helping Jason and Tim with Gotham was all your initiative.”

 

“The only person we ever wanted you to be was you, Master Richard,” Alfred said, letting go of Dick to look into the younger man's eyes. “Because that's exactly what was needed, for Gotham…” He glanced past Dick at Bruce. “...and what, I think, for us too.”

 

“That’s part of why I’m here,” Dick cleared his throat, shaking off the emotions though he knew it was all in vain, “Because now it’s you that’s needed for Gotham...both of you.” He pointed a finger at his chest, “This is something that I know in my gut that is too big for us to handle...it was bad enough that you gave me the Joker file, but this.” Dick shook his head. “This is too much.”

 

“I trust you,” Bruce said, slightly annoyed at having to reiterate something he thought was always clear with his first Robin, “That’s why I gave you the file...it wasn’t just to be convincing that I told you to tell everyone that what I’d given you was the green light to replace me. You _will_ replace me, Dick.”

 

Dick couldn’t believe what he was hearing,  “Ever think about asking me first? I don’t want to become Batman. I never did. I wanted to be my own person. I wanted to help my family, you included, in this calling, but I never wanted to replace you. I still don’t.”

 

The raw doubt in his chest smoldered into something hotter, and it burned inside him to keep it in, so he let it out, “Are you kidding me, Bruce? I thought me leaving in the first place made that abundantly clear. There’s nobody _on the planet_ that could replace you, and I’ll be damned if it’s me. The Joker file was wrong to do, but I dealt with it because you weren’t around. It had to be me...but you know what, I’ve had to sacrifice trust others put in me to keep that secret for you. And I’m sick of it.”

 

“Sacrifice trust?” Alfred said again, unsure if he heard right.

 

“Jason,” Dick said, and he watched Bruce’s eyes probe his own, “That’s right...that man, even after all he’s done, would die for me and I’m stuck guarding a secret for you, snubbing him when he has _every right_ to know what was on that file! How dare you ask me to keep that from him?”

 

A muscle in Bruce’s neck jumped. Alfred, knowing that cue, said to him sternly, “He’s right, Master Bruce...keeping Miss Gordon’s death from Master Timothy was wrong, but this... _this_ is more than proof of your condit-”

 

Bruce cut him off, almost vehemently, “Alfred, that’s enough. The best place for me to be is here.”

 

“Don’t you interrupt me-” Alfred fired back, and Dick knew that only that butler could talk to Batman that way, only he’d get away with it, “-because you know I’m right. You haven’t been the same since Halloween and I won’t let you sit there and deny it. I’ve known you longer than anyone, sir. Do you know what I think it is?”

 

Dick hadn’t known that, any of it. He thought it was just Bruce deciding that it was time to hang up the cape and cowl...he hadn’t known that there was more to it. He listened, disgruntled concern in his posture.

 

“I think it’s because you failed,” Alfred advanced on Bruce when the younger man glared away, “No, you _look at me_ , Master Bruce. You don’t want to hear it, but I won’t sit here another moment while you go on as if nothing happened that night in Arkham Asylum. Because I know, Master Bruce. I know that the Joker got inside you that night, so intimately inside your head that night that you don’t think it was just the toxin that brought it out. You think that you’re unfit for the mantle because you’re compromised-”

 

Bruce got to his feet, an offended and incredulous look on his face. “-’compromised’?”

 

“Are you going to tell me that you _don’t_ blame yourself for what happened?” Alfred asked earnestly, and for a man on the wrong side of fifty, Dick commended the old butler on standing his ground yet again. “Explain why you didn’t reach out to Master Jason after what happened, why you left without saying anything to him? You were disgusted with yourself. You couldn’t believe that you had failed that badly, done so wrong by your son that you mourned and loved, and couldn’t look him in the eye, after he saved your life. Explain why you didn’t tell Miss Kyle how you have always felt about her, even before Talia al Ghul. You didn’t think yourself worthy of that after that night. You felt compromised, violated, and you didn’t know how to continue to be Batman. The legend had been broken, but Gotham still needed Batman. I don’t think I need to go on to Master Timothy, Commissioner Gordon, or Master Richard, either.”

 

“You may blame yourself for what you did, son,” Alfred reached up to put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “But I don’t. I opposed your crusading in the beginning, but I’ve since become the biggest believer in your calling. The calling you’ve shared with three young men and a brilliant young woman. I don’t think you’re at fault. I think you’ve lost faith in yourself...and I won’t stand for it. You’re a Wayne, but not only that, you’re Bruce. And the Bruce I raised never gave up on what he knew was the right thing to do. Sitting here, on a remote island while your family needs you? It’s not right.”

 

Bruce raised a hand to his face, concealing his eyes. He stepped out of Alfred’s hand, stalking down the hall to one of the rooms. Under his breath, Dick barely heard Bruce say, “I can’t.”

 

Dick had never seen Bruce like this. Ever. Except perhaps after Jason disappeared. With this...gloomy haze around him. Like he’ll never be whole again. Like he’ll never be himself again. It worried him, and it would keep him awake for several nights after.

 

Breaking him from this was Alfred, the sound of him exhaling a shaky breath.

 

“Are you alright?” Dick asked him, a hand on the older man's back.

 

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose. “I never liked talking to him like that...but part of my duties is to be honest with him, even and especially if it hurts both of us for me to be so.”

 

“I had no clue he was dealing with what happened,” Dick admitted, “I thought he was passing the torch.”

 

“It scared him, sir,” Alfred told him, “Being so out of control, so helpless. He didn't want you to know how much it scared him...and now he's retreating into himself and it's affecting his judgment. He knows he should return, but he doesn't think he can...and that's something I cannot assist him in doing, as much as I wish I could.”

 

Dick put his hands on his hips. “What am I going to do? We need him.”

 

Alfred sighed, pressing his hands against his back and his bones lamenting painfully at the stretch. “Goodness me...I am getting too old for this.”

 

“Hmm?” Dick just stared at him, puzzled.

 

“I'm not about to let you go back to Gotham empty-handed,” Alfred insisted, “While I am no Batman...the Batman we have at present is reluctant. So, if I may...if he won't, I will.”

 


	42. A Conquering Will

“Hold your mouth for the war

Use it for what it's for

Speak the truth about me

Determined, Possessed

I feel  **a conquering will** down inside me, Strength

The strength of many to crush

Who might stop me

My strength is in number

And my soul lies in every one

The releasing of anger can better any medicine under the sun”

  * Pantera, “Mouth For War” 



…………………………………………………………..

When Gail told Jason she wanted to drive herself to the hospital today to visit Harvey, the emotion that wore heaviest on his face was a disappointment. Like he was being left out. She knew why, and it wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with him on the ride out - it was just...she wanted to do it herself today. 

 

Abigail had been too afraid to drive for a while. After getting jumped trying to unlock her car, she always felt safer if steadier hands than hers were at the wheel - usually Jason’s. The training he’d been giving her was fostering a shaky confidence, pushing her to reclaim some independence. 

 

Jason was a great friend, and Gail knew she owed him so much more than she could pay back in this lifetime, but somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice was jabbing into her side the fact that he was letting her live with him for basically nothing, giving her martial arts training other people would pay millions for, cooking for her. She told herself as she parked her Subaru into Elliot Memorial that she would grab Jason something special on the way home.

 

She’d brought her messenger bag, dipping her hand inside as she walked like she’d done a thousand times and wrapped her fingers around the gun he’d insisted she take everywhere with her. Her shoulders relaxed. What he didn’t know was that she’s been carrying a gun since before she was legally able to purchase one. She felt her phone buzz against the back of her hand, and she fished it out, wiping off the screen on her jeans. Jason. 

 

**Tell Harv I said ‘hi’.**

 

He, unlike so many of the guys she met at college, texted with perfect grammar. It was refreshing, really, even if he rarely texted her because they were around each other so often. She texted back,  **I will. Picking up something for you on the way home.**

 

She stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the tenth floor. He must’ve been waiting by his phone to shoot her a quick reply, she figured.  **Oh? If you’re talking groceries, we’re out of guac and bread.**

 

**I’m not talking groceries.** She replied, bouncing up on her tiptoes in slight impatience and restlessness as the elevator climbed. 

 

Another fast answer.  **You don’t have to get me anything.**

 

She sighed. She didn’t answer, just shoved the phone back into her bag and when the elevator doors came open, she walked down the hallway that was becoming familiar to her. Two rights and a left, to the room where Harvey was. Gail opened the door, and even though he was in a coma - not sleeping, she softened the noise of the door shutting. 

 

She knew she had to answer Jason or he’ll think something’s wrong, so she texted,  **Gotta go, I’m at Harvey’s. Call if you need anything.**

 

With that, She threw her phone in her bag and forgot about it, sitting in the chair by Harvey’s bed. Her eyes stung every time she looked at him there. How his eyes were closed, with his eyebrows relaxed like he’s dreaming about something good. The face mask that fed him oxygen, and through the cloudiness of the plastic, she could see his mouth half-open. She didn’t want to look at the sheets he was under, didn’t want to see how they shallowed below his hips. His hands were lying by his sides, and Gail took one, feeling the roughness of his huge fingers. She smiled, squeezing his hand between both of hers. 

 

Her lungs felt small as she gathered air to say, “Hey Harvey...it’s me again. I know I’ve been coming by less often. Not on purpose, no...but I wanted to say I’m sorry anyway. I’ve no excuse other than I’ve been thinking about some things…” 

 

Her eyes stung worse, and she blinked rapidly to hold everything back. “I’ve been thinking about when you found me on the pier, crying about my mom...and...and when you came to get me after what I did to Falcone. I’ve, uh…” She sniffed, trying to compose herself. “I’ve been apologizing a lot lately. To Jason for being a burden on him....he says ‘hi’ by the way. To everybody else for what I did...And while I  _ am  _ sorry about all of that, the thing I regret most is taking you for granted.” 

 

“You were the man I wished was my real father,” She admitted, staring at his fingers. “You loved my mother. You loved me like I was your own. You never let me think what I felt or what I thought was stupid...or unimportant...I guess what I’m trying to get at here...is that I’m apologizing to you for what I’m going to do if I’m given the chance.” 

 

She would never get to divulge that piece of information, because the door behind her, the one she’d just closed, was being opened. Expecting to see a strong jawline and a white streak through black hair poke in through the door, what she got was a growing-out buzz cut and about six inches shorter in height. He came in, his eyebrows shooting up when he saw her; he wore a pair of khakis and a short-sleeved army green shirt, with sandals. 

 

“Oh, sorry, I can come back later-” He half-retreated back the way he entered. 

 

“No, Tim,” She said, straightening in her chair, “Come on in, you’re fine.” 

 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” He said apologetically, through a stiff mouth that didn’t move much when he spoke. 

 

“Hardly,” She tried to forget what she’d almost said out loud with  _ Robin  _ just outside the door. She gestured to the other chair that he dragged to the other side of Harvey’s bed, sitting down and crossing one leg over the opposite knee. “How’s the arm?” 

Her eyes fell to his elbow, which was heavily wrapped in athletic tape and a brace. Tim shrugged, “It’s better than it was...should be back in action in another week...how’s training?” 

 

“Fine,” In truth, her limbs were sore, but she enjoyed the work. “Jason’s a good teacher. Hard, but good. He’s one of those teachers that more or less wills you into doing well.” 

 

“Ha,” Tim exhaled, nostalgia thrown over him like a too-warm blanket, “I know how that feels.”

 

“You do?” 

 

Abigail was intrigued by this member of Jason’s family for a few reasons. 

 

One, Gail had gathered from watching how they all interacted that Tim was the most critical of them. They were all smart young men, but Tim seemed like he was on a whole other level in a different way than Jason was in a league of his own tactically. Two, Jason didn’t like Tim that much. Three, she didn’t know why that was. Four, she’d seen him before. Tim Drake had gone to her university as an undergrad, won a few awards for business management and criminology. He was a teacher at Robinson Academy, until Fear Halloween changed things around here. And he was  _ younger  _ than her. And five, he was the one who had kidnapped her to coerce her to confess her deepest secrets. 

 

“Yeah, I do,” Tim rubbed an eye with the back of his hand. “You know who trained me, right?” She nodded, “Yeah, well, he sent me around the world - most recently in Germany a year ago, and it’s...tough, to say the least.”

 

A silence fell over the room, and Gail laid Harvey’s fingers gently back on the blanket before getting up and idly walking around his room, hugging her arms around herself. She said, quietly, “He sounds like a god…” 

 

“What?” 

 

She turned around, lifting a shoulder. “Batman. Bruce Wayne. The way you all talk about him...it’s like he’s some kind of god. A force of nature.” 

 

Tim laughed hollowly, his thumbnail picking at the indentations under the joints of his fingers. “Only to people who’ve never met him. Seen him up close.” He shook his head. “He’s intimidating, but only in the sense that he’s done so much for the city, he’s endured armies of people that wanted to kill him - that sort of intimidating.” 

 

She understood. She’s met professors like that. Gail asked him, “Before you met him, what did you think?” 

 

“Honestly?” Tim said, his eyes scanning over Harvey’s monitors. “I thought ‘why in the world would he listen to  _ me? _ ’ Why give me the time of day? Like I wasn’t good enough for him.” 

 

Something told Gail that he never really left that frame of mind. Maybe he was still training, in some ways. She could recognize it on his face because it had been on hers for a while now. “I think that way too...whether he returns or not, I can’t help thinking that he’ll never let me near his family.” 

 

“Killing for revenge does put a sour taste in his mouth,” He said, and it felt like a white-hot blade in her side. “But he accepted Jason, so maybe there’s hope.” 

 

“He knew Jason before, loved him like a son,” She pointed out, striding to the window and leaning her forearms onto the icy marble windowsill, “He’s got no attachment to me. He’s got no reason to trust me.” 

 

Tim stated plainly, as a fact, “Jason trusts you...more than he trusts me.” 

 

“He’s my friend. And I’m his. For better or worse,” She didn’t let herself see the irony of that statement. 

 

Tim paused, as if deciding her sanity. “You know...with him, it’ll likely be worse.” 

 

She smiled, glad he couldn’t see it. “I knew that the day we met...Do  _ you  _ trust me?” Gail looked at him over her shoulder, and could only see his face in profile, his eyes shadowed by his brow. “Jason out of the equation, with everything that’s happened - would you trust me?” 

 

“Before you told us your story, no way in hell,” Tim said after a moment, “After, knowing what you’ve done and what you’ve promised to do, it’s slim and unstable - I don’t know you much beyond what you’ve allowed us to know. I imagine that’s by design. Jason’s hard to throw out of the equation, so I’ll play it out. I know Jason, a deeply distrustful and cynical person, trusts you with his life; I know he let you in, told you things that he hasn’t even told Barb, Dick or I- Oh…” He seemed to be scolding himself, probably for revealing something he shouldn’t have, “I don’t know if you knew this, but I keep close surveillance in Jason’s hideout so I know about-” 

 

“I know you do,” She said, unphased; she took that to be a no. No, he doesn’t trust her, even still. In all honesty, she didn’t blame him. 

 

“How?” Tim shifted and moved to face her completely, his eyebrows a hard line. 

 

Gail smirked. “I found one of your microphones cleaning, and once I started actively searching for them, I found them everywhere. Jason wouldn’t spy on me, and Barbara’s not the type to do it to someone he trusted. Dick’s a gentleman. That left you.” A beat passed, and she offered, “I didn’t destroy them. I put them back.” 

 

Tim’s eyes narrowed at her, “Why would you put them back?” 

 

She merely smiled and went to the other side of the hospital bed to kiss Harvey’s forehead, then to the chair to collect her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Tim was staring holes in her back. 

 

“I understand that this is how trust works in your family,” Gail told him, glancing over her shoulder with that knowing look in her eye, and her hand curled around the doorknob. “Guilty until proven innocent. I put them back because I want you to trust me. If that’s how it happens, so be it.” 

 

A silence filled the room like water, until Tim said, his voice sincere, “What you said back in the warehouse, before Jason came in...about it being pointless to play deduction games with you. I want you to know  _ that’s  _ the reason I don’t trust you...it’s not your past. It’s what you know. What you can figure out. It’s the first lesson Batman ever taught us as Robins...Knowledge is power. And I'm not sure what you'd do with yours.”

 

Abigail stiffened, in her shoulders and her neck. “And here I was thinking that would be obvious.” She bit her lip, attempting to keep her tongue in her cheek, but she only partially failed, “I may have blood on my hands, but I’m trying,  _ really _ trying, to be a good human being. Say what you want about my past, but guess what? All it proved was that I am unbreakable. I don't shrivel up into a depressive child when life kicks me in the teeth. You know what I do?” 

 

The hair on the back of Tim's neck bristled as she said, “I get even.”

 

She left through the door, leaving Tim alone with Harvey. 

 

……………………………….

 

When Abigail got back to the firehouse in Old Gotham, the windows on the fire engine bay doors were pulsating with blue and purple lights. He was welding. She had several bags from a few stops she made, and she wasn’t sure how she got them all in her arms without dropping any. She closed the car door with her hip and carefully walked to the side door. 

 

After failing a few times to open it by rolling her forearm against it to turn the knob, she kicked it and waited. A few moments passed and the door swung away, there he was - she saw that he was shirtless, his chest covered in grease and grime from working. Her eyes wouldn’t leave the way his scars wound over the hardened muscle and for a moment she was glad she wore sunglasses. He wore just a pair of loose-fitting jeans, boots peppered in metal shavings from the grinder. His hands were wiping each other off with a blue shop towel. When Jason saw her face, he smiled and the grime on his face made his teeth whiter and brighter. “Hey, need a hand?” 

 

“That'd be great,” She said, returning the smile as he took a bunch of the bags from her. She noticed a Sharpie behind his ear, and a pair of safety glasses on top of his head. 

 

His smile faded a little as he saw just how many bags there were. “Not all of these are mine, are they?”

 

She looked at him sheepishly, “More than half.” She lifted a bag in her left hand, “Got the guac and bread, though!”

 

“Gail…” He said as they started up the stairs. “You don't need to get me anything.”

 

“I feel like a mooch, Jay,” She confessed, genuinely bothered by this notion and it surprised him, “You cook for me, let me live here without paying rent for the two rooms with my things in them, not to mention the training…”

 

“You do the laundry,” He pointed out, though he knew it wouldn't do much to ease this from her mind. They were almost at the top of the stairs, and he didn't dare glance down into the bags yet. 

 

“Only because I twisted your arm to let me do it,” She reminded him, and they took the few steps to the kitchen, setting everything down on the tables. Gail gently put her hand on his arm, and he peered at her sideways, “You’ve spent the months we’ve known each other taking care of me. Let me take care of you this time. Let me help you.” 

 

She saw his cheeks rise in color, but didn’t comment on it. He rested his fists on the table, refusing to acknowledge the bags were there, and breathed slowly for a minute. She watched his jaw clench and unclench.

 

He did this more and more in recent weeks...Ever since they danced together that night, where she’d watched from her window giggling as he ziplined to steal the neighbor’s peaches while hanging upside down. She had never felt like that with anybody she’d ever dated in college, which wasn’t many but even so. She had never felt as safe as she did in his arms, in the arms of a killer. In the arms of someone who had torn the city apart but desperately held onto her wrist on that gargoyle what seemed like ages ago. 

 

She felt like she would burst into flames when he touched her. For most of her life, through her silent years as a wordless child and well into adulthood, she had always sensed a cold bubble was around her. People tended to stay away from her, and with how solitary she was, how sad her story was, how broken she was over things she should “be over by now”, the few that bothered to get close ended up leaving anyways. She had gotten used to being alone, and it wasn’t that she minded her own company being her only company...It was just that in recent weeks, the only company she craved was his. Jason....Where she had a cold bubble, he had a burning atmosphere that was present the moment he entered a room. He had such energy, such passion inside him that was too big to fit and too explosive to hide or contain. He was so unapologetically  _ Jason  _ in a way that made her icy quietness seem even more invisible. She was amazed every time he told a story of him doing infiltration, moving among a crowd silently, going undercover - she came across the same question every time:  _ how could they not notice him? He was everywhere.  _ And she always envied that about him. His ability to command the room. 

 

Anytime he touched her, his fire and her ice seemed to battle each other, and it gave her goosebumps. She had never been called beautiful in her life by anyone other than her mother, but Jason...he made her believe she was, not by touching all the parts of herself she hated and then some - a tactic employed by the first boy she slept with, but rather by the way Jason didn't touch her, not without her permission. Like she was a sculpture you had to ask the sculptor to hold. Like she had value so far beyond something that existed to be touched. 

 

He had kissed her neck, just once. Even though he’d shaved the next day and hadn’t let his facial hair grow since, sometimes - late at night, she could still feel the ghost of his stubbly jaw on her neck, his hands on her, the smell of his skin, and every part of Abigail awakened with sparks. 

 

He did this more and more in recent weeks, stood there and let them both pretend that they were nothing to each other. She had never met anyone like him in her life, but part of her knew that he was waiting for the business with Falcone to be over with, and he wouldn’t hold onto her after that. He would let her go, even if all she wanted to do was stay with him for reasons she couldn’t explain with any kind of certainty. Even if all she wanted to do was stay within reach, stay in the next room from him. The word tossed over and over in Gail’s mind and she hoped he could sense it through the hand she kept on his arm. Stay. Stay. Stay. 

 

Finally, he patted her hand before withdrawing his arm from it. He cleared his throat. “Alright. I’ll take it.” 

 

She smiled, though sadly. “Thank you. You’re gonna love what I got you, just close your eyes.” 

 

Gail corralled him into one of the chairs by the table, and he did as she said, his eyes slipping shut and his arms crossing over his dirty chest. She got to rummaging through the bags. He said casually as she collecting his gifts, “How was Harvey?” 

 

“Same as always,” She reported, working through and putting everything of his into a pile on one end of the table, “Tim came by.” 

 

“Oh?” It wasn’t a conversational ‘oh’, she noticed. It was a ‘do I need to strangle him?’ kind of ‘oh’. She was used to getting these from Jason when she talked about her infrequent run-ins with his least-favorite brother. 

 

“Nothing to be concerned about,” She reassured him, before she grabbed a few of the items and patted his knee, “Stay put.” 

 

“Whatever you say,” He said, getting comfortable. 

 

Gail smirked at him. She left the room and made the quick beeline for their shared bathroom with the tub. She pushed the hot water faucet on with her toe, then kneeling in front of the tub. She darted her fingers in and out from under the stream, waiting for it to get hot enough and using the cold water to mediate the right temperature. Once it was right, she opened up the new tub of bath salts and used the scooper from his usual bucket to add some into the water, then pushed in the stopper at the bottom. 

 

She swished around the salt granules, before she unwrapped one of the bath bombs from the tight plastic they came in. The bath salts were citrus, but the bombs would add the smell of ocean waves much cleaner than either of them had ever smelled coming from Gotham Bay. She tossed the bomb in, watching it fizz and disappear. He was going to love this. 

 

And lastly, she laid out the hand scrub on the counter for when he was done. She inhaled the aroma of coconuts, salted, that permeated the entire room when she opened it up, sighing deeply. He was really going to love this. Gail waited until the tub was filled up, and when it was, she returned to Jason. 

 

His head, eyes still closed, turned in her direction once she entered the room. He ran a hand through his tangly hair, unknotting the black locks and the single white streak that was a bit darker with the filth. “A bath?” His lips goofily lifted. “I smell, huh?” 

 

She snorted as he reminded her of the morning after they met, when she had asked him whether or not his friend was picking him up to torture him or get him to a shower. She echoed back, “Oh yes, it’s just been unbearable.” 

 

He laughed, and she came in finally, throwing the empty bags from the bath stuff over the rest of the gifts so he wouldn’t see it. “Okay, open your eyes.” 

 

He did, and the blue of them were piercing as she directed, “I’ve got a bath going for you. Your first gifts are in the water, more on the floor by the tub, and on the counter once you’re done. Got it?” 

 

Jason just stared at her, his gaze soft on her as he slowly shook his head, black hair falling in his face. He didn’t know what had gotten into her, but he knew he was torn between worshipping the ground she walked on and stealing the receipts from her purse to return everything she got him.

 

“What?” She could feel her ears redden, and was glad she had her own golden locks down in braids that covered them. 

 

Jason got up from the chair, towering over her and she liked feeling small around him, but she’d never, ever admit it. “You’re something else, sunshine. I’ll figure out what in the bath.” 

 

That was when they both heard the metallic unsheathing of a long, bladed weapon, coming from the next room - the dormitories. 

 

…………………………………………………………………

 

Gail and I locked eyes,  _ intruder  _ drumming in our hands, and just like we’d drilled in quickdraw games we invented, we both reached under the table. She grabbed her gun the same time I did, clicking on silencers and cocking them. I motioned for her to stay quiet while I put my ear to the wall, listening hard. 

 

Whoever it was in there, they were silent as a ghost. Their footsteps were almost muted, toe-to-heel steps, but the time between strides suggested someone shorter than me, small feet that pointed to a female, and the sword, if they proportioned it to their bodies correctly, would be about -

 

Jolting me back from the door was the plaster in front of my face splitting apart as the sword I’d been tracking burst through, and I had to duck to avoid decapitation - surging forward, I ran through the door of the kitchen and entered the dorms, firing at the black shadow hunched by the wall. The sword was stuck in the wall, and the shadow - a ninja - dodged the bullets, launching herself at me. I switched grips, catching the ninja in midair and attempting to clean her clock with the metal on the back end of my gun. But she twisted around my body, her legs coming around my neck while she held the hand with the gun by the wrist, somehow contorting her body to try to rip my arm out of the shoulder socket. 

 

“Gail, shoot the fuckin’-” She cranked down her legs on my throat, and I fought to work my hand under her thigh which was solid muscle. I thrashed, trying to scrape her on the walls to get her off.

 

“I can’t - I’ll get you!” I heard Gail pant behind me. 

 

I slowly turned around, but when Gail tried to shoot - squeezing off a bullet that whistled just by my ear, the ninja let go of my wrist to backhand her across the face, catching the glint of metal on the ninja’s knuckles - and I heard the smack, Gail’s yelp, and I got mad. I dropped my gun. I worked my hands around the ninja, hoisting her properly onto my shoulders. I saw one of the metal beds and a sinister grin crept onto my face. 

 

I charged to one of the beds with a low roar, and leapt onto one on my back, squishing the ninja between the hard bars of the bed and my heavy back. I scrambled to my hands and knees, straddling the ninja between my thighs and held her down by her throat, but I found the heel of her hand jamming my chin, making me bite my tongue enough to taste blood. I grunted against the pain, clenching my hand on her throat and lifting her, slamming her back down. Her dark eyes were almost black as she wrapped both arms around mine, shifting me until she was on top of me, her foot crushing my throat as she pulled my arm, almost standing on my neck. I gasped through a closing windpipe, trying to maneuver under her to throw her off. 

 

Then I heard harsh curses, before bullets whizzed through the ninja’s shoulder - one - two - three - four - five -  _ clickclickclick.  _ I heard Gail make a noise of frustration, before the gun itself was hurled through the air, nailing the ninja in the back of the head. I had my opening, I moved her foot from my throat and flattening my fist into a knifehand, heaved myself up and chopped her neck just under her jaw - to the carotid artery. She fell limp almost instantly, slumping away and over the back of the bed, onto the floor completely out cold. 

 

I was breathing hard, and so was Gail, leaning against the wall for support. She brought the back of her hand up to her bleeding lip, shrugging once she saw the blood. She smiled at me, her teeth stained pink. I laughed hoarsely and spat blood from my own mouth onto the floor. I said, through a partially numb tongue that slurred my words a bit but the sarcasm was untainted, “Thisth may be kinda sthudden, but I think you’re really pretthy.” 

 

She rolled her eyes, licking her lips and wincing as she did. She sighed, walking over to the unconscious assailant. “So much for taking care of you.” 

 

“Don’t beath yoursthelf up thoo much about ith, best presthent ever,” I joked, pushing myself off the bars of the bed and draping an arm around her shoulders casually. I held her tight briefly before going to pick up my gun, still loaded with a full mag. I crouched above the ninja, holding the business end to her temple as I pulled the black silk covering her face down. 

 

I stared, wanting so bad to just blow her brains all over my floor. I stared at this bitch’s face, until the numbness left my tongue and the pain settled in. 

 

Gail placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “Jason. Who is this?” 

 

“Someone I wish we didn’t need for information right now,” I straightened, wanting to stomp the lungs from her chest, “Get the chains downstairs, and my welder.”

 

“Jason,” Gail said, firmer and veiled worry in her voice, “If you’re welding chains onto a one-twenty pound girl, I want to know who this is.” 

 

I glared into the ninja’s face, as if my gaze alone would set her stupid black pajamas on fire. I growled, “That’s no girl...that’s Shiva.” 

  
  
  
  



	43. While You're Alive

“I'll have you know

That I've become

Indestructible

Determination that is incorruptible

From the other side, a terror to behold

Annihilation will be unavoidable

Every broken enemy will know

That their opponent had to be invincible

Take a last look around  **while you're alive**

I'm an indestructible

Master of war”

  * Disturbed, “Indestructible”



………………………………………………….

I suppose one could say that I was...acquainted with torture. About as familiar as staring at the same slab of old concrete for over a year, memorizing each every individual crack until every inkling of knowledge decayed from my brain...save for what was on the concrete. More often than not, blood, teeth, hunks of my own hair where it’d been ripped out of my scalp, and flesh were splattered on the floor...I was  _ too  _ familiar with torture, and I spent so much time with the art of sadistic pain so I figured it was about time I made my contribution to the subject. 

 

I kept a few tanks of car racing gas nearby for such an occasion, along with two modified cars - one complete and one nearly complete. They weren’t exactly road-worthy yet by my standards, but they could run race gas, sit idle, and help me work some answers out of Ra’s al Ghul’s best assassin. 

 

But I was going to give Shiva a choice whether or not that’ll become necessary. Why bother? Just you wait. She didn’t regain consciousness until about an hour later, which gave me plenty of time to set everything up. Gail didn’t understand what the racing gas was for, but when I handed her one of my many spare tactical hoods, she got the picture. 

 

After that, I tended to the wound on Gail’s lip, cleaned up, and got into the new armor. By that time, a bad feeling was festering in my gut painfully like a sore. The kind you just don’t ignore when you can do something about it.

 

Gail tended to Shiva’s wounds, and at first, I’d protested, but then I understood. Where she shot Shiva was entirely intentional; three times through the shoulder to impair the arm - the closest to life-threatening she got was a graze past the base of the neck that almost hit the carotid. She was trained to shoot, alright. She knew we would probably need Shiva for interrogation - even then with a master assassin in the room, something like what we were about to do, and we can’t shake down a corpse for info. 

 

I had Gail put her hood on just as Shiva finally opened her eyes. I didn’t put mine on. Like I said, I’d be giving her a choice...Besides, she already knew my face before tonight, and I wanted her to remember that I knew hers. 

 

We moved her to the engine bay with the cars, facing a blank wall - the only one in the place without racks of weapons or shelves of ammo boxes. I wrapped her in chains, which she tested her strength against futily, only to find that I’d welded them together into a solid mass. It’s easy to find the weakest link in a chain, but it’s hard to find it in a complete piece of metal wrapped around you. One of the first things I learned about the League’s assassins: they don’t rely on brute strength because most of them don’t have it. 

 

She blinked a few times, took one look at us and at the window, where noonday sun was shining into the room. Her black pajamas must be stifling in the heat, let alone under the metal. I saw her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. Shiva breathed slowly, patiently, before she spoke, “Hmm...and here I thought I was going to be disappointed, but just like Batman and so many in this cesspool, I have underestimated you.” 

 

“Don’t do it again,” I said, leaning against the metal beds with a hand on my gun beneath my jacket. Gail was behind me, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She held a shotgun in her lap, pointed at the ninja chained to the chair. Well...I suppose now I should probably call her what she was: assassin. As in, League of Assassins. “I’m only going to ask this once, and if I don’t get an answer, I get mad: who leads the League?” 

 

“The house of al Ghul,” Shiva said automatically, and I kicked myself internally when I remembered that every assassin under their employ worshipped their late master. ‘In Ra’s, we trust’, ‘Pray by the House of al Ghul’, and all that shit. 

 

“Who leads the League  _ now?”  _ I demanded, but Shiva rolled her eyes at me. 

 

“Westerners,” She lamented, her lips curving. “I was wrong. I'd hoped after the last time I saw you, after you’d submitted yourself to death and been reborn, you'd have gone beyond asking simple questions you know the answers to.”

 

“What is she talking about?” Gail’s eyes were on me, but I set my jaw, my brand burning like the first time. Even if I was clothed in three layers of titanium ballistic plates, I felt vulnerable thinking to my year in hell. Like, naked in a firefight vulnerable. 

 

“When I was with the Joker, he sometimes took a break from beating me so others could try it out,” I prefaced, and my mouth ached down to the roots of my teeth as I forced the words out, “Penguin, Riddler, Zsasz, Two-Face, you name it. Each in their own way....nobody really wants to discuss it because of the implications, but Joker was as well-connected as you could get as a criminal. He had ties to everyone. His tie to Shiva…” Shiva only stared at me, completely composed, “...was one Christmas Eve, the night ‘Joker’ became a household name that gave kids nightmares for years.” Myself included. “He put up fifty-million dollars for her and seven others to kill Batman. They all failed, but Joker made the connection. One night during my time with him, Shiva came by and did nothing that Joker hadn’t already done a thousand times over.” 

 

“It was a business proposition,” Shiva defended, as if it was innocent and righteous. “You would’ve been happier than hanging from that meat hook, at least. An offer of glory.” 

 

My hand flew of its own accord - right across her face. I snarled in her face, spit flying from my lips and onto her bleeding cheek, “You offered me a lifetime  _ as Ra’s al Ghul’s bitch. _ ” 

 

“You’re right,” Shiva sneered, blasé. “I should’ve seen that you were already Joker’s.” 

 

Before I could even react to that, Gail rushed forward, “You uppity piece of shit-” Her pale white fist hit Shiva in the hollow of the Asian woman’s cheek, and I saw teeth spit out between her lips with the follow-through. She headbutted her too, the hard shell of the tactical hood saving her from the pain of the blow, and I lifted Gail off her feet, but she connected with one of them to Shiva’s nose. Gail pushed both her her palms against my chest, swearing at me until I put her back down by the cars. “Get off me, Jason. I’m gonna-” 

 

“-do exactly as I tell you, you got me?” I said, though I was fighting a smile, “I wasn’t trying to keep you safe there, I was trying to keep Shiva alive a bit longer so I could get information, remember?” 

 

“Best make it fast. And get that stupid grin off your face,” Gail seethed through her teeth, hyperventilating and I didn’t have to see her face to know it would be red with anger under there. I laughed, and pecked my lips to the cheek of her hood. 

 

“Hell of a headbutt, sunshine,” I said, winking before I turned back to Shiva, who was bleeding from her nose and readjusting her mouth, “Watch your mouth. I should break my foot off in your eyes for that little comment alone, but I’m feelin’ generous...where was I?” I thought for a second, “Oh, your shitty business offer. No thinking for myself, deciding who the villains and heroes were. Pointing me at somebody and ordering me to kill them....and when I said for you to shove your ‘business proposition’ up your ass, you…” I trailed off. 

 

My blood was rushing straight to my hands for murder as what she’d said caught up to my brain, the gravity of what she’d done that night, but I had to keep a cork on my sociopathic tendencies. I remembered that Gail was in the room. I could feel the anxiety coming off her behind me. How nervous she was. I didn’t have to see her, I knew her. Gail was tough, but she was a young woman who’d been in tense situations like this more than she should at her age. And a bit too happy to run into a fight for my liking. 

 

“What were you going to say, boy?” It didn’t help that Shiva went on with her bullshit. She was grinning, her mouth red as she teased, “That I was taunting you? Mocking your pain? Holding freedom right in front of you, close enough that you could touch it with your tongue and jerking it away when you go to reach for it?” 

 

“And I was Charlie Brown enough to consider it for a second,” I said, leaning over a bit as I told her, “You know, you were right to call me a ‘boy’ then. I was one...but that was ages ago. We’ve switched places, Shiva. You’re the one that’s helpless and useless, and I’m the one with the business proposition...so either you tell me who your boss is, where your boss is, and where Carmine Falcone can be found - in that order…” 

 

I drew a long, serrated knife from my belt and tapped my scarred arm with the flat of the blade, my voice dropping to a softness I reserved for my enemies, “Or I’m gonna make your skin match mine. I know under all this armor, you can’t tell just how many scars I’ve got...but it  _ was  _ the Joker. Psychotics get obsessive about things like torture. You think you can bleed as much in an hour as I did in over a year without dying, Shiva?”

 

For all that ninja composure, Shiva’s face drained of color despite her expression of hatred. She was white, making the black of her hair and her clothes harsher in contrast. She thrashed a bit more in the welded metal, and I watched the panic start to sink in, the way I’d felt it then. I added, grabbing another knife and sliding the edges of both of them against one another, “Not much glory or honor in a death like that. No expensive funeral, nobody sobbing over your body at a viewing, no eulogy, no avenging of the deceased. It’s damned aggravating, I would know.” 

 

Gail’s eyes were hot at my back, and some part of me registered revealing my anger like this to her, something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her seeing. But the rest of me didn’t much care what she saw, just that I kept the pressure on Shiva.  

 

“You’re angry that I didn’t free you, then?” Shiva demanded, trying to move under the metal. “Is that why you’re doing this?” 

 

“I’m not an idiot. You were following orders. Not your fault, it’s just the asshole giving the orders,” I rolled my eyes, “I’m doing this because you broke into my house.” I opened my arms wide, indicating the wide expanse of the engine bay. “See all this? This is my house. You break in here, and you’ve kicked one hell of a hornet’s nest. Talk.” 

 

“Have you any idea how far my loyalty to the al Ghuls runs?” Shiva’s voice was incredulous, as if asking how dare I ask her to give up her master. “Death would come first before I’d become their betrayer.” 

 

“I do understand that kind of loyalty,” I gritted my teeth against the pain in my chest, “But I figured as much.” I started walking towards one of the cars - Gail by the other, sliding on my tactical hood. “Just remember that I gave you a choice.” 

 

I resheathed both of my knives with my back to the prisoner. Shiva was wary, quiet as she watched me lean in through the unfinished car’s driver window, and waited with my hand on the keys in the ignition. I glanced through the other window at Gail in the complete car, and I nodded. I grabbed a crowbar that laid by the front tire, pushing the clutch in with my eyes on Shiva; I had the car up on jackstands, it won’t move. We both fired them up, the sounds like artificial thunder and it echoed through this engine bay. I switched pedals with the crowbar, peppering the gas. Gail was revving up the finished car pretty good, and the fumes should be hitting our guest any minute…

 

It started when Shiva’s angular eyes blinked rapidly, the urge to rub her burning eyes made all the more maddening by the fact that her hands were stuck under the metal bindings. Her nose wrinkled against the burning there, too. She coughed, sputtered. One car burning off race gas would make the eyes water and burn, but two cars with full tanks of racing gas, in an enclosed airtight space with Shiva less than six feet from the exhaust? 

 

I braced the crowbar between the gas pedal and the driver’s seat, so I could let go and watch my handiwork. I was standing comfortably, leaning against the car and watching Shiva fidget, thrash, tears streaming down her bloodshot eyes. Gail and I were safe, our hoods effectively keeping the fumes out. 

 

I stood in front of her as she blinked through watering eyes, crossing my arms - the symbol of patience. I was waiting for her to call it off, call the cars off and tell me. I’ve got all day. She didn’t. 

 

I unsheathed my knife again, twirling it between my fingers until it caught her eye. The metal restraints on her only came down her body to her hips, where her forearms and hands poked out - unable to move from how tight the bindings were. I dragged the razor-sharp tip of the blade across her forearm, splitting the fabric of her clothes and leaving a line of red. She gritted her teeth against the pain and fought, spat blood on the hood I wore but I didn't care. I wiped it off with my glove. 

 

Everyone's got spirit in the beginning, it's just a matter of time until it ran out. 

 

Me? I lasted the first four months solely on spirit...after that, God knows what kept me going. I wondered how long it would take for Shiva. 

 

Then, as she thrashed again, the ends of her hair came away a spot on her neck and something black and circular was embedded there. Immediately, I gripped her throat, holding her still while I pried the thing from her skin. It was stuck there with a few spikes that had dug into her flesh, and I inspected the smooth top, where a red light was flashing along with a serial number in white along the edge. My stomach fell between my feet...It was a tracker. 

 

I glanced to Shiva’s face, her throat still in my hand. She was grinning. Gail’s hand came onto my shoulder, but I wasn’t paying attention to that, I was looking at the patch of bright yellow forming on my white engine bay door. My ears ringing from the cars running, I squinted as a second later, a small hole formed and three grenades were tossed through. 

 

I didn’t have time to think, I scooped Gail up and dove between the cars as the grenades went off, pressing her to the ground with my body. Bang after bang sounded, and it felt like my eardrums would burst. Something heavy and metal fell on my back, which I shoved from my shoulders and I pushed myself to my feet to find that what had fallen on me was the welded metal restraints. A huge hole had been ripped in the engine bay door, everything near that side of the bay blown to bits, and Shiva was getting into the back of a truck that was pulling away from the house. Men in suits were helping her, and were pointing guns at me as I peeked my head over the trunk of the car. 

 

They fired at us, and I pressed down against Gail again, saying something in her ear. A few words, nothing special...When I drew back to look in her stormy dark blue eyes, they were sparkling and clear. I managed a quick, confident smile to reassure her. 

 

“Stay here, call Barbara!” I told her after, and as the gunfire stopped, I heard the sound of tires screeching. I sprinted to the opposite side of the firehouse to snatch an ammo duffle in each hand, along with an M4 carbine from the wall. I tossed both through the open side window into the back seat of the finished car. It’d have to do. Gail was about to protest, putting herself between the driver’s seat and me, but I picked her up by her shoulders and around her waist. I rushed her back to the side of the bay, pinning her there with my hip and produced a ziptie from my belt. Didn’t have time to argue. I tapped the back of my hood, the front lifting up so I could peck her on the cheek. I ziptied her wrist to a pipe that ran along the wall, and stepped away, setting her on her feet. The anger rose to her face, which flushed a deep red. The curses were coming to her mouth, I knew it, but I hurriedly went back to the car.

 

“Try not to hate me, _ ”  _ I got into the driver’s seat, pulling out from the wall and flooring it, the car screaming out of the garage. 

 

I brought the front of my hood back down, and then worked the hand with the tracker under the waistband of my armored pants, biting my cheek as I pushed the spikes into the skin to the left of my hipbone. I cringed, hard. Oh, so sanitary. I shifted through the gears, then I drove with my knee for a second while I followed the truck down the long stretch of straight road with my foot to the floor. My hands were busy reaching into the back seat for the M4, and fishing out the attachable M203 grenade launcher, along with a few surprises. 

 

I drove with my knee, swerving through traffic with the gunfire coming out of the back of that truck while I loaded the M4; once the pretty puppy in my lap was fully loaded, I punched the windshield until it shattered, glass covering the seats. The sun came out from behind the clouds overhead, and the shine on their guns was a beacon, an easy target. 

 

“Here comes the sun, do-do-do-dooo…” I popped the gun up on my shoulder and the dash, sighting myself while I drove. I couldn’t see Shiva on the back of the truck until I saw a swish of longer hair in the cab, but I counted three guys at least in the tray. I picked off the first guy who poked his head up, right through the crown of his head. I put down the gun for a second, weaving through a couple of cars. A beeping came through on my comms, and I tapped the side of my hood to answer it, “What?” 

 

“ _ Jason Peter Todd,”  _ Uh-oh, Barbara's rolling out the middle name. The guys in the back of the truck ducked up all at once, shooting at my tires. I mounted the curb for a second, the bullets hitting the empty bus stop instead of the car. “ _ What the hell is going on?” _

 

“I'm going to work, going down 6th after a Falcone truck with Shiva in the back,” I saw one of the thugs try to fire, but I wasn't finished prepping the M4 so I whipped out a handgun and shot at him. I got off the curb, mentally fearing for the shocks that I’d just put on this car. 

 

“ _ What?! Dammit, Jason. Why is there an extra tracking signal on you?” _

 

I dodged the question, upshifting. I was almost three car lengths from the truck now. “How mad is she?” 

 

“ _ Abigail's livid, should've heard her swearing when she called me.” _

 

I grinned, unapologetic and calm as the speedometer hit the far side of seventy. “I could use some help. I need a blockade at the far end of Pioneer’s Bridge in three minutes.” 

 

“ _ Fine, but I'm sending Tim in-” _

 

“Don't you dare-” I urged firmly, before I saw Shiva get out through the window and hang onto the side of the truck. How in the hell? “Shit, lemme put you on hold.”

 

I unloaded the M4 in Shiva’s direction, but she flipped herself over the cab and hung onto the other side to avoid them. I shifted into fifth gear, bracing myself as the space between the vehicles closed and-  _ BANG! _ I rammed their asses, jostling Shiva almost to the point of falling off. She scrambled to the roof as a guy from the tray tried his luck putting his leg on the other side of the tailgate, then put his  _ foot on my hood _ . 

 

I leaned forward, holding the gun with one outstretched arm and poking his temple with the end of the gun before blowing his brains out all over my car - the wind caught it and dragged brains all through the car. I swore into the wind, the guy’s body fell into the passenger side of the bench seat along with his gun, but I’d forgotten Shiva. I caught the sun blacking out above me for a second before she landed with a smack in the middle section of the bench seat, and then I had a challenge.

 

I elbowed back into her head, smashing her face into the seat. She pushed her feet off the dead guy’s body and pinned me to the door, reaching for something behind her back - probably a knife. She got up on her knees in the cab, her being smaller than me helped her maneuverability here; she stabbed towards my face, and I barely had time enough to block with the grip of my gun, snatching her wrist and winding it behind the steering wheel. I had to be careful that I kept the thing straight and locked into the truck’s tray. A guy popped up from the tray while I did this, and all in one motion, I reached into my jacket and whipped a throwing knife at him, nailing him through the eye. 

 

I slid a hand through the hole to bend her wrist around at a painful angle, though I couldn’t hold it for long - she chopped my Adam’s apple with a knifehand - like she was paying me back for earlier, making me cough and my vision blurred for a second. I let go of her hand, and used both of mine into hammerfists on either of her ears. She was dazed for a second, rolling onto her back with her legs kicking my chest in pressure point areas around the armpit and the junction of my neck and shoulder. I coughed again, spit on the inside of my hood as I recoiled with each impact, until I caught her ankle with my hand - driving with my knee and my other foot planted to the floor. 

 

I wrapped my arms around the ankle and twisted it almost the whole way around, the bones cracking loudly and splintering through the skin. She ain’t walking on it again anytime soon. The truck veered left, and I reached down to reclined the seat back; sliding my ass back on it to drive, I drove my heel into the wheel and spun that thing to keep up with the truck. I took Shiva’s leg with me, dragging her as she screamed. I heaved her leg back, her torso on my lap, and I balled my fist, pounding the places on her chest where Gail shot her. The remaining men in the tray were shooting, through they were jumping around from how the truck swerved through traffic - my foot working on the wheel with them. I leaned to avoid the shots, before picking up my M4 where it knocked against my knee and sprayed bullets in their direction, killing one. 

 

A white-hot pain on my shoulder put my attention back on Shiva, and I glanced to see a long knife sticking out from the top of my left shoulder. I snarled, taking my big hand over her face and with my good arm, slammed her into the back of the bench seat until she stopped fighting. I didn’t know if I killed her or knocked her out, but I didn’t care. I heard a deafening pop and knew one of my tires just blew out from a gun the last guy in the tray was shooting. I got back in the seat, my hands shaking as they fumbled for the grappler in the back of my belt; I only  _ just  _ got it in my hand, aimed at the cab of the truck and fired, grabbing Shiva under one arm and my M4 barely under the other securely as I snaked out onto the roof and the accelerator kicked in. I was yanked from the hood of my car and into the tray of the truck as we got onto Pioneer’s Bridge. I peeked above the cab, the blockade I’d asked for was only half-established, but given the time constraints, I’m happy with what Jimbo could muster for me. 

 

Something hit the back of my hood and the front lifted up; I spun around to see Shiva braced against the cab of the truck, her hands trying to rip the hood off me. She tagged my lip with the armor of her fist, and blood filled my mouth again as the bitten tongue was cut open. I was getting tired, my arms feeling like they were made of lead, and I fought her, the driver of the truck swerving and making me fall on my ass, sliding till my back hit the tailgate. The hood was off, but I didn’t mind. I spat blood onto the tray, but I caught a glimpse through the window in the back of the cab of the blockade. 

 

Something had forcefully pushed through them - a black Hummer of all things, and I heard the tornado-like roaring of a helicopter. I tried to stand but faltered on the bad ankle, and it looked like Shiva was spent too. I was shot forward as the Hummer slammed into the front of the truck, the same time a helicopter hovered down right in front of us and a cargo compartment was opened up in the belly of the machine. I caught the white suit and eyepatch of Carmine Falcone in the compartment as the back of the truck lifted off the ground several feet - launching Shiva and I into the air. 

 

I really hated this next part. We slammed into the far wall of the compartment, her on her back and me bad-shoulder-first, then onto my back on the metal flooring. The light above me that meant safety and escape went out, the only light coming from the tiny one in the top of the chopper’s roof. I wheezed, struggling to get air and my blood thundered in my veins, blurring my vision and every moment seemed like a year. 

 

Carmine came into view from my left, and then his boot - two ribs kicked into my torso, and I coughed up blood, turning over painfully to work it out of my mouth with a bleeding tongue. I looked up to see the Don smiling, but not at me. He moved around me to kneel by Shiva, a hand on her shoulder, saying to her lowly, “You’ll get triple-pay for this. Well done.” 

 

“And m-my master?” Shiva croaked. 

 

“She’ll have what she needs soon enough,” Carmine panned his eyes from Shiva to me. A pit formed in my stomach. He slithered back to me, gloating, “Remember what you said to me? That if you want something done, do it yourself...Well...it seems I owe you an ‘I told you so’, doesn’t it?” 

 

I gathered air in my lungs, glaring at him through watering eyes. I managed a smirk, “How’s Alberto?” 

 

Falcone’s face soured, and he jabbed me in the mouth, blood flooding the space again. “You’re going to pay dearly for what you’ve taken from me...all of Gotham  _ will pay  _ for what you’ve taken from me.” 

 

“There’s more than just me out there to stop you, now…” I breathed, before the light overhead dimmed and I finally succumbed to unconsciousness. 


	44. A Fire Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's got Skype? Thinking about setting up a group on Skype full of Batman fans so we can talk about the Batboys and Batman, considering nearly everyone I've talked to that reads TGP is all, "I never have anybody else to talk Batman with!" And I'm like, "I CAN DO ZAT". So who's got Skype? Message me on FF.Net or Quotev to the username GothamsProphet, if you're interested.

“No matter how many deaths that I die, I will never forget

No matter how many lives that I live, I will never regret

There is **a fire inside** of this heart

and a riot about to explode into flames”

  * 30 Seconds to Mars, “Hurricane”



……………………………………………………………..

 

When I came to, my first thought was that I felt lighter and once I got my heavy eyes to open, I realized it was because I'd been stripped of my armor. The room around me was gray, dank, and almost entirely metal. Like I was in a factory or metal mill of some kind. On a table about five feet from my left was my armor, hood, and weapons, my gloves and boots. I sat up, mildly surprised I wasn’t in a chair. I was bare - chested, and only had on the leather underlining that I wore under my armored pants. My arms chained at the wrists and biceps, and the chains were bolted straight to the floor. More chains encircled my ankles, also bolted to the floor. I could stand, and I did, glaring around. My neck ached but that paled in comparison to the raging migraine that pounded at my skull. 

 

An icy dread filled my stomach and chilled me from the inside out. The same as it had the day I was captured by the madman. This dread was only lightened in the relief that I managed not to drag Gail here with me. That she was safe. I tried to think of her as the metal door creaked open, and as I turned to see who it was, my eyes met with the single eye of Carmine Falcone. 

 

Frozen, I stood there while he shut the door behind him and he pulled out a cigar from his jacket, “Good evening, Mr. Hood.”

 

There was a metal baseball bat under his arm. What? He thought  _ that _ would put the fear of God into me? Pffft. 

 

Anger intoxicating me, I started to rush towards him, but just before I could have reached out to grab his neck, my chains stopped me. Then, I realized why I was chained like this, why the chains were this length. So he could taunt me. 

 

“I see you've discovered your new living arrangements,” A sneer on his face, he lit the cigar arrangements drew in the first heavy drag. He blew the smoke in my face, inches from his as I pulled at the chains hard. “Believe me, after all this trouble the past few months...it's exciting to see you in chains.”

 

I stopped struggling, but just took a step back and breathed. The nicotine from the smoke calmed me only slightly. I decided to see if I could lure him closer with shithead snark, “You know, it's usually polite to buy a guy dinner first before you get kinky.”

 

“Funny,” He said with complete deadpan, a blue-gray halo of smoke circling his silver head, “Before you murdered my son, I would have let the fact that you sliced my eye out go. I'm getting old, and when you reach such an age, you must cut your losses where you can...but...as a father, the day you killed Alberto was the day you forfeited a quick death. Now, I'll make you suffer.”

 

“That's touching, pops. Really,” I stood still a distance away, staring at him with my chains pooled at my feet. “But you're gonna make  _ me  _ suffer? What, do you think you're scary?” I shook my head. “I've seen scary. I've seen real evil. And you haven't got his smile.”

 

Falcone put his cigar between his teeth, and took the bat out from under his arm. He reached over to the wall, and pressed a button that I hadn't noticed. Suddenly, the chains yanked down and slammed me on my back flat on the metal floor. He was on me, the first thwack of his bat hit the middle of my forearm and then my rib. 

 

But all I could do was laugh. Sure, that shit hurt. But  _ really? _ That's all he's got? He saw me cackling and hit harder, into my chest and my collarbone. Almost entirely scar tissue on the skin there. 

 

“I'm sorry, man - I just can't take you seriously,” I wheezed, a big grin on my face. “I mean, I've been tortured by the best. You're gonna need to step it up to impress me.”

 

Falcone dropped the bat, and moved to stand a few paces by my head. I only had a second to look to see his shoe before he punted my skull, and everything went black.

 

…….

 

**HOURS BEFORE - THE FIREHOUSE**

 

Gail couldn't remember a time in her life when she had sworn so much, and in such a short period of time as when she heard that damned car scream down the street. Her hand was ziptied to a pipe, and she cursed him for doing this. She swiveled around, desperately looking for a knife or a sword or something. She braced her foot against the wall, and ignored the pain that resulted from her trying to yank her hand free. She even tried both feet, attempting to use gravity in her favor to no avail. She was still so small, with all her progress, and she hated it. She knew that he bought these reinforced zipties for his vigilantism, too...They're meant to withstand much greater strength than anything she could come up with.

 

“He'd better hope I don't get my hands on him,” She threatened, having located her phone on the floor mere feet from her. She strained against the ziptie to reach it, her arm outstretched but her fingers just not long enough. “Oooh, his ass is grass when I get my hands on him.” Something in her shoulder popped, and she hissed in pain, “Why couldn’t I have just majored in accounting or something?” 

 

She swore at herself for being stupid, and flipped around, toeing the phone close enough to pick up. She knew he told her to call Tim, but something in her doubted that he’d be healed enough for it. Her fingers trembling so badly against the keys that it took her two tries to dial Barbara, and she just  _ knew,  _ deep in her gut that something must have happened. She failed him. He was alone, and she failed him. 

 

“Come on, pick up,” She panted, her throat sore. She wedged the phone in the crook of her neck so she could use both hands to work at the ziptie.

 

“ _ Hello, Abigail?” _

 

“Barbara, I’m gonna kill Jason Todd,” She warned, “Shiva broke in, and while we were interrogating her, a bunch of guys busted in here - looked like Falcone men - and took her.” She gasped a breath to enunciate each word with a sharp tug on the ziptie, “Jason- _ fucking _ -Todd, ziptied me, to _ -a-PIPE!” _

 

“ _ Whoah, what?” _ Barbara sounded incredulous, and Gail could hear typing on the other end, “ _ Shiva was there? In the firehouse? Why didn't he call me?” _

 

Gail threw her hand up in the air, exasperated, “I don't know, I was tending her wounds-”

 

“- _ Wounds _ ?” 

 

Gail paused, a note of satisfaction in her voice, “Yeah. I shot her. Five times.”

 

“ _...He's an idiot,”  _ Barbara said, though Gail heard the affectionate sister-like scolding in her voice. “ _ He's an idiot, what's the point of training you if he's going to just leave you there? He needs backup, why did we even get all that help?” _

 

“You're telling me,” Gail agreed bitterly, “He's fucking lucky he's not here-”

 

“- _ where did he go?” _

 

“After them,” Gail told her, tired and frustrated, “Get in touch with that asshat, and tell me if anything happens. And send someone with a big damn knife over here.”

 

“ _ Will do,” _ Barbara promised, “ _ I’ll send Selina.”  _

 

“Selina?” Gail heard a click on the other end, and was left wondering. Selina? Selina who? 

 

She sighed, slumping to the floor in defeat. Sweat clung to her forehead, slicking her bangs into golden tendrils, and she was breathing fast, a blend of frustration and fatigue blurring her vision until she closed her eyes. She had no idea who this Selina was; Jason had never really mentioned one. 

 

Gail gently knocked her head on the wall behind her, her hand tied above it, and waited. She drifted into a light limbo between dozing and drowsy, and stared at the tactical hood she’d torn off her head moments ago, her throat feeling choked. His name lodged in her throat, and she covered her face with her other hand. 

 

Minutes went past, or maybe an hour, Gail didn’t pay attention to the passage of time between calling Barbara and the distinct sound of heels clicking towards her. Her eyes blinked a few times, clearing the grogginess from her eyes. 

 

“Well, well…” A voice that sounded like milk being poured over glass looked filled Gail’s ears, and she immediately pushed herself to her feet. Her eyes fell on the silver buckles and black leather of the catsuit, and the unusually bright green irises of Catwoman, who said, “Gail Byron?” 

 

“You’re Selina?” Gail asked, her brows together and wary. 

 

“Oh,” Catwoman seemed annoyed, and as she stepped closer, Gail’s skin prickled as she saw her brandishing shining claws, “I see the whole ‘secret identity’ thing is becoming too old school as well.” 

 

Gail watched in scrutiny as Catwoman slipped a claw between the ziptie and her flesh, cutting it straight through. She rubbed her wrist, saying quietly, “Thank you...Did Barbara tell you what happened?” 

 

“About as much as she wants me to know,” Catwoman rolled her eyes, continuing as Gail crossed the room and began to gather guns in an almost feverish urgency, “I know Jason is now chasing Shiva down the highway, left you tied up, and - you might not know this yet - Robin Number One will be in Gotham within the hour. We’re meeting at the Clocktower.” 

 

“What?” Gail’s hands stopped on a pair of handguns, turning around to face her, “Has he got Batman with him?” 

 

The older woman’s eyes darkened, her painted full lips curling a frown. She shook her head, and Gail remembered the countless times she’d heard about the exploits of the Catwoman, both felonious and heroic. And when it was the latter, Batman was almost always involved. 

 

“Well...just having Dick on the job will be a huge advantage,” Gail reasoned, “If you don’t mind waiting five minutes, I can give you a ride.” 

 

Catwoman lifted a shoulder, stretching her arms above her head as she idly walked about the engine bay. “Take your time.” 

 

As Gail put together a couple of bags full of the essentials, a conversation was running in the back of her head...the only ‘just in case’ conversation she’d ever had with Jason. And while replaying it over and over in her head, she fell silent walking the halls. Without him, she felt like she did before him...a ghost. 

……..

 

**WEEKS BEFORE**

 

After lying on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, for two hours, I had to break the silence. I set down  _ This Side of Paradise _ beside me and closed my eyes. I could tell she’d notice me stop reading, but she didn’t look over until I rubbed the bridge of my nose. She was wearing her glasses, and they glared off the light of the ceiling fixture. 

 

“Jason, what’s wrong?” 

 

I sighed, crossing my legs at the ankle and lacing my fingers over my chest. I tilted my head over to gaze at her, and she did so for me, her hands settling a half-read philosophy book open on her ribcage to rest. We were inches from each other, and her eyes were so dark a blue that I wanted to be swallowed up, never to see any other light but hers again. I exhaled again, asking her, “Aside from what’s going on outside these walls? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. And that’s why we need to have this conversation.” 

 

“Hey…” She closed the book on her torso and placed it under her head like a pillow, before she shifted onto her side. Her glasses were squared, and enlarged her eyes a little, but the way she laid, her gold hair spilled over her shoulders. I could smell her natural perfume...“Your face is white. Are you okay?” 

 

I clenched my hands into fists for a brief moment. “We need to talk about…’what if.’ If we’re separated when the Falcone issue comes to a head, what to do…” 

 

“You think we will?” Now she was worried, and I don’t think she was aware that she’d gotten closer with that question, as if she thought I’d leave her at any moment. 

 

“I don’t even want to think about it,” I raised a hand to stop the thought, “I promised myself when we met that I wouldn’t let you get hurt because of me…” 

 

“I’m not fragile,” She assured me in that playful tone of her voice. 

 

I said, rolling to my side to match her, “Fragile has nothing to do with it. You’re a better human being than I am, and you’re not going to die if I can help it…” I dropped an octave involuntarily, talking like this. “You’re one of my best friends, I’ve told you things I’ve never told anybody…” 

 

“Tell me another,” She whispered, and I saw past the glare of her glasses that her eyes were shining. “Tell me another thing you’ve never told anyone else.” 

 

I wished now that I’d just kept my mouth shut. I upset her. I frowned, but did as she asked. “When I was in Arkham with Joker, I used to daydream about having a friend in there with me. Just talking to no one, pretending that someone else was going through what I was. It actually helped some days.” 

Gail put her glasses on top of her head, “What did you daydream them saying?” She reached out and circled her fingers around my scarred wrist. “If I was in there with you, what would you need me to say?” 

 

My eyes were watering, but I sniffed, held them back as best I could. I moved my hand under hers until her fingers were curled in my palm, my thumb rubbing her knuckles. My voice broke in a few places, as I stared at our hands joined between us,“That I still mattered...that no matter what they did to me, or you, that we mattered. To the world and to each other. That someone was coming for us, even if nobody was. I’d want you to tell me that as long as we’re together, we can handle anything they throw at us.” 

 

I knew this wasn’t just hard for me. I knew that her mom was worried like this the night before she died...I didn’t want to alarm her. I wasn’t going anywhere. I wanted her to know that, so I squeezed her hand, until her fingers slipped between mine and locked. I sniffed again, wiping my cheeks, “What about you? Jesus, Gail...I’m sorry I did this, I didn’t meant to get us both crying…” 

 

Her eyes were even bluer when I looked at her, the eyelashes clumped with the tears and she let out a weak noise with a shake as she glanced from me to our hands, a tear breaking loose with the motion. It fell on her nose, among the abundant freckles. Her nose wrinkled like it did when she was angry, and she shut her eyes tight, more tears running down her cheeks. 

 

I brought our joined hands up, and without thinking, held my mouth to her knuckles as I coughed out more apologies against her skin.

 

I didn’t feel pathetic, doing this in front of her. I trusted her. “I’m so sorry, Gail…”  

 

She said in another whisper, “No, no...I’m glad we’re having this talk...I want to know what to do...so you’ll be okay.” 

 

“What about you?” I asked her again, firmer this time. I pressed my free hand against her cheek, swiping her nose with my finger to get the wetness off it. “Tell me. Tell me what to do.” 

 

“My mom...she used to…” She whispered, before she cleared her throat, saying a little louder, “I was afraid of storms as a kid, and my mom would hold me…” 

 

“How?” I asked, and she guided my hands. My left ducked under her arm and across her back to hold the other shoulder, the other over her legs, her head tucked under my chin; she was cradled in my arms, and I held her like my life depended on it. “Like this?” 

 

“Yes,” She said, and knotted her fingers in my shirt, “She’d just say ‘Wednesday, you’re safe’, ‘Wednesday, you’re brave’, ‘Wednesday, you’re beautiful.’ until I fell asleep…You don’t have to do all that...but if you’d just hold me...” 

 

I blinked a few times, my fingers curled around her in earnest. My heart felt like it might explode right out of my chest, and I wanted nothing more than to stay here with her. I kissed the top of her head, choked back another wave of crying…I whispered, my voice broken and raw, “W-Wednesday…” I could barely hear it, but she sucked in a gasp. I wasn’t used to calling her this, but I did it for her, just for her, “You’re safe with me…Even if it kills me, you’ll be okay.” 

 

“God,” I said, terse hands on her. She smelled like paper and home and sweat, and her hair was soft against my jaw. “Wednesday, you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” 

 

“J-Jason,” She stuttered, a warning in her voice telling me she was close to crying with all abandon again. I was there too. I just had one more thing to tell her. One thing that I’d always wanted to tell her but didn’t have the nerve. 

 

“W-W-Wednesday…” I was shaking so badly, she was jostling in my arms and she wrapped hers around my neck, her face wetting the collar of my shirt. “Y-you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen...all your st-t-trength, your knowledge...your faults, your mistakes...How you saw my scars,” I felt like I was drowning for air, gasping to declare, “And my story, and saw a person...Jesus Christ, you saw me. You really saw me.” 

 

……………………

 

**PRESENT**

 

_ You really saw me, Wednesday. _

 

Gail drove Catwoman to the Clocktower in her Subaru, which she parked in the alley. Her passenger had turned on the radio, but Gail’s mind couldn’t leave that memory. She remembered how he shook, how he held her like she was life to him. She remembered how his voice broke like he was so much younger, like he was broken as much inside as he was outside. 

 

A tear slipped down her cheek from under her aviator sunglasses.  _ You saw me too, Jason.  _


	45. Feel No Consolation

“If you think I've given up on you,you're crazy

and if you think I don't love you well then you're just wrong

in time you just might take to feeling better

Time is the beauty of the road being long

I know that now you  **feel no consolation** ”

  * Blues Traveler, “Just Wait”



………………………….

 

Gail sidled into the Clocktower lift next to Catwoman, pulling the metal curtain across the front. The older woman hit the top button with the end of a claw, stretching her arms over her head, before she caught the glint of a gun in Gail’s hand. She raised a sleek black eyebrow, an amused tone to her voice, “Are you expecting trouble up here?” 

 

“No,” Gail answered, but pushed the gun, which she hadn’t touched in months, into the holster under her jacket anyways, “...It’s my mother’s gun from when she was on the force. I take it with me in situations like this; to calm me, I guess.” 

 

“I’ve never heard of a gun calming anyone before, but more power to you if you can use it.” Selina decided she liked this girl, Gail Byron, whoever she was. She had to admit, as Gail was someone who lived with Jason, she was curious about her. “Tell me. I’m wondering since you’re fairly young. When’s the last time you used that gun?” 

 

“Shot it at someone or pulled it on someone?” Gail asked, wary as to why Catwoman would want to know, but she supposed if they’re all on the same team, she’d find out regardless. The other woman shrugged, indicating she didn’t care which question she answered. Gail hesitated, before saying with a deadpan expression on the curtain as they neared their destination, “The last time I pulled it on someone, it was my father. The last time I shot it at someone, I killed Carmine Falcone.” 

 

The floor of Oracle’s Clocktower came down to meet their feet, and the metal curtain was drawn back, and Gail walked out slowly, leaving Catwoman inside the lift. 

 

Selina hadn’t any clue that the woman Jason was harboring in his firehouse was responsible for the death of her biological father. Why, she was so small and unassuming, Selina honestly thought it was pity that had Jason playing house. An impressed smile fell on her face, as she mumbled to herself before following her into the room, “Aren’t you full of surprises…” 

 

Gail did not go very far into the room, mostly because there were more than a few new faces. She searched the room for Jason, a nudging horror in her gut when she didn’t see his face or a cherry red tactical hood anywhere in the packed room. She spotted Dick leaning against the large clock face in his Nightwing uniform, but she didn’t approach because of the person standing next to him, talking animatedly as if absolutely infatuated with him and from what she could see, it was mutual. The woman must’ve been almost taller than Jason was, definitely taller than Dick by a few inches, and she wasn’t even wearing heels. Gail couldn’t believe the sheer height of the woman, like she was going to start tearing airplanes out of the air compared to how tiny Gail was. That was exactly it, she figured.  _ This woman looks like she’d tear airplanes out of the air, and then apologize. To the airplanes.  _

 

She had a long mane of fiery red hair pulled back into a french braid, and her garb had Gail thinking she wasn’t from around here. Her legs, which seemed to go for miles, were encased in royal purple pants made out of what Gail guessed was lycra, boots that went all the way up to her thighs, along with a sleeveless top from the same material. Metal armbands with symbols unlike any on Earth wound around her biceps, and the way they flexed when she talked, Gail didn’t think she’d seen anyone like her. 

 

“Gail?” She barely registered the voice from the man next to the unusual woman, Dick, and when she did, she saw him excitedly waving her over to them. The woman grinned next to him. 

 

Slowly, she took the necessary steps over, and allowed herself to be tugged in for a quick hug, “Good to see you home.” 

 

“I heard about what happened, are you alright?” Dick asked, letting her go and checking her over. 

 

“I’m fine,” Gail shook her head, before she grasped Dick’s wrist, “Has Jason been back yet? I’m getting worried.” 

 

His eyes softened as she said that, and he glanced at his companion, “Barbara told me that his main tracker went offline, along with a weird second signal that was following him.” 

 

Gail thought back to what Jason had whispered in her ear when they were attacked in the engine bay. The numbers he’d told her to remember. She wasn’t sure if it hit her slowly or all at once, the realization that Jason was likely captured...It was easier to believe than the alternative, even with the chilling in her blood at either thought. “Falcone must have him…” She felt like an invisible hand held her gut in a vice grip. “Ugh...I feel sick. This is my fault…” 

 

“Don’t talk like that,” Dick urged, though he didn’t sound confident. A tiny part of her brain registered that this would be the second time Jason’s disappeared like this. “We’re going to save him.” 

 

“I don’t know if this will bring you comfort,” His companion said, stepping forward, and Gail was in awe of how clearly she spoke, enunciated her words. She could’ve listened to her speak all day. “But Dick has told me all about Jason, and I believe that it is only a matter of time before we find him.” 

 

Dick grinned, and introduced her, “Gail Byron, meet Koriand’r or Starfire. Star, this is Gail.” 

 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Starfire held out her hand to be shaken, and when Gail returned the gesture, she saw the green eyes of the taller woman concentrate on the hand, like she was measuring something. When she noticed Gail staring, she released her hand and said bashfully, “I am working on my handshake, I apologize. When I shook Jason’s hand, I almost crushed it.” 

 

Gail’s eyebrows shot up. She tried to imagine Jason in that situation, freaking out over his hand almost being crushed. She couldn’t. “A matter of time, huh?” 

 

“He’s strong,” Dick said, having to lean in for her to hear him over the talking in the room, “Have hope...he’s got us. And I know between you, me, Barbara and Tim, we’ll get him home. We won’t stop until he’s safe.” 

 

She rattled her head, frowning; her hands tensed, her fingers wrapped in the material of her shirt, a Disturbed band tee of Jason’s. It was big on her, easy to turn into a dress if she hadn’t worn her denim shorts. Without thinking, she took a handful of the shirt and lifted it to her nose. It smelled like him...gritty gunpowder, citrus body wash, and menthol cigarettes. As dry as it did smell, she didn’t care.

 

“Listen up,” Barbara’s voice cut through the chatter, and the people in the room, which numbered almost ten, turned to her. Gail joined them in this a few moments after, the coldness in her bones only subsided by the sight of so many on their side.

 

She caught sight of another redhead other than Starfire and Barbara, a woman with a red bat on her chest, but it was nothing like Jason’s. She wore a black cape, red spikes along her gauntlets and her armor was thick plates, like Batman’s in the photos she’d seen of him taken on Halloween. This ‘Batwoman’ had her head bent towards a much older man wearing a white shirt with a black waistcoat, and a good-natured smile on his face as he cleaned his glasses on the edge of a handkerchief in his hands. He was balding and slender, with a strictly formal posture made even more prominent as his face was framed by gray brows and a moustache. 

 

“I don’t think we can hold out any longer for him,” Barbara’s face darkened as she said, “Red Hood’s been captured by Falcone and his men, and there’s no debate that the loyalist League of Assassins is helping him.” 

 

Gail hadn’t noticed Gordon until he came out from the shadows behind Barbara’s many computer screens, saying, “My men were blockading Pioneer’s Bridge, I saw a helicopter fly off with Hood and Shiva. And now I’ve got a call saying there’s been a bomb threat to Robinson Academy.” 

 

“No…” Tim leaned forward, his hand on Barbara’s wheelchair. Gail had just seen him earlier today in typical summer wear, so him appearing now in his full Robin uniform was strange to her. “Not Robinson. Are you sure, a bomb threat?” 

 

Gail’s mouth came open when she remembered that Tim used to teach at Robinson. She watched Gordon nod, his silver-ginger eyebrows furrowing. “Yes, it’s a-” Static was coming from his police phone, and he answered, “Gordon.” 

 

“ _ Commish, 10- 79 was a negative. We got a 417, code 6 and 10, possible code purple in Robinson, requesting further instructions.”  _

Tim paled a white so stark against his uniform that Gail was surprised. She knew the police codes like the back of her hand. The bomb threat was false. There was an active shooter in Robinson Academy, and SWAT was on standby, and there were still students and teachers inside. They suspected gang activity, which meant Falcone was involved. 

 

“On my way,” Gordon said, closing up the phone and starting for the lift.

 

“I’m coming too,” Tim said, moving to follow him. “Go on, Oracle - I want to make sure this turns out alright.” 

 

“Be careful,” Was all Barbara said, in a small voice. 

 

Gail was prepared to let Tim just walk out, but she found herself weaving through the onlookers to catch him just before Gordon pulled the metal curtain closed. “Tim…” 

 

He regarded her cautiously, “What do you need? I’m in a rush.” 

 

“There’s armor for you in the back seat of my car,” She told him pointedly, “Jason and I designed it, but he made it…” She bent her head and said to him, her voice earnest, “Even if you don’t trust us, we still want to protect you. Think about that when you wear it.” 

 

Without another word to him, Gail spun on her heel and rejoined the group, hearing the mechanical clattering of the lift lowering down. She hoped that meant something to him. 

 

“Right now, our top priority is to put out fires,” Barbara said, her face a mask of formality and stern tact, “And to bring Red Hood home. Before I lost his tracker signal, there was a second signal that I hadn’t seen before. I’ve been analyzing it, and I think it might be a way to zero in on his location right now.” 

 

Gail’s spine tingled with nervosa, until she spoke up and immediately regretted it, all eyes on her. “Uhm, hi.” Her cheeks flushed. “I might be of some help with this.” 

 

The elder gentleman asked, curiosity and politeness in his eyes and his voice, “Miss Gordon, who might this be?” 

 

“Abigail Byron,” Barb said, “Jason’s friend I told you about.” 

 

“Alfred Pennyworth,” The butler said, nodding to her. 

 

Gail swore at herself internally for not looking a little nicer when she met the closest thing Jason had ever gotten to a real father. She felt underdressed as she went to shake his hand, forcing a smile despite the situation, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

 

“Sir?” Alfred repeated, clasping both hands around hers. Unflappable as ever, he said, “Let us make a deal: call me ‘Alfred’, and I will refer to you as ‘Abigail’, and not ‘Miss Byron’.” 

 

“Deal,” Gail found herself oddly at ease around Alfred, and she somewhat understood how Jason described him as the kind of man that could brighten a day simply by entering the room. “As I was saying, I’ve got something that might help you with that tracker signal. Before Shiva was broken out, Jason pulled a tracker beacon off her neck and it had a serial number…” 

 

Barbara’s eyes lit up. “ _ Did  _ it now?” 

 

………………

 

My eyes, one swollen and the other aching, fluttered half-open and blurry, but still registered the black silhouette of a woman leaning against the door of my cell, her leg propped up and her arms crossed. I tried to move even though my arms were badly bruised and my left forearm was probably fractured. My chains rattled, telling me that my limbs had moved but not by much. 

 

The silhouette spoke, a lithe Arabic accent to a voice I hadn't heard in years - which made me question if I was awake at all, “It's no use...You're stuck there. Your effort was impressive, I must say. I've been around many a spirited man, but none with the passion of ten men contained in one body...Save for Batman…” The woman laughed, and sauntered closer, but as the black mass came closer, the form became more defined. 

 

My vision cleared only slightly, though surely I had to be imagining the shadows thickening by her shoulders like wings and her eyes couldn't be black…I sucked in a breath through my teeth in alarm, but she hushed me. “Shhh...I'm not going to hurt you...I'm just going to take something from you that I need.” 

 

Her hand came into view as she slowly reached out towards my forehead. But the moment her fingertip touched my skin, white-hot searing pain spread out across my face and I was too surprised to cry out, too overcome to react with anything but stiffening my limbs, letting out a pitiful whine. She attempted to soothe me, her face - skin the color of coffee with milk, hazelnut hair, full lips - screwed up in concentration like she was looking for something, “Oh come on now, don't resist me...you know you can't. It's not going to be removed forever, I'm...making a copy.” 

 

“T-Talia,” I forced out, the pain spreading out to my whole body and concentrating in my scars, all of them. “No, st-stop!”

 

“You haven't any idea what I'm doing to you,” She purred, and then when she drew back her hand, it felt like the pain was being pulled out of me from the point where she touched me - and it hurt even  _ worse. _ “You haven't any idea what I'm doing  _ for  _ you...I'm going to kill him, Jason. Isn't that what you've always wanted?”

 

“Who?” I wheezed, trying to see what was shining red in her palm. It looked like bleeding light. “P-please, no.”

 

“Batman,” Talia said, her voice low and deadly, “I'm going to murder him, but not after my monster is done with him...your memories are the final piece I need.”

 

“My...memories?” I panted, tossing and turning like I had a fever. 

 

Talia chuckled, her nails rapping against my forehead and each prick hurt like a hot needle, “Yes, Jason...your memories. You see…” She whispered, breath in my ear, “When they say ‘head of the demon’,  _ they mean it.  _ I'm the new head, and I'm making myself a new demon...a new monster...a new Joker. And I needed you because...well,” Lips were on my ear, “ _ You knew him best, didn't you?” _

 

I shivered as I felt a wet tongue lick a short strip of skin on my neck. I tried to elbow, shove her away but when I opened my eyes I was alone again. My heart was slamming against my chest. Stinging came to my eyes, and I wiped my ear, wetness coming off on my hand. She was here...and she had violated me... I slowly laid back, threw my arm over my eyes and desperately got a hold on myself. And I told myself for the eleventh time today that Gail was coming for me. She was looking for me. She was. 

 

She had to be.


	46. Don't Take Me Home

“We swore ourselves protectors from all the evil in the world.

You weren't born my brother but you're gonna die that way.

**Don't take me home.** Don't take me home. Don't take me home.

I watched you put on a brave face.

I wanted so badly to be brave.”

The Wonder Years, “I Wanted So Badly To Be Brave.” 

……………

 

If the past seven months were all a dream and Batman had never left, the fear of doing his work alone had never settled in bone, the too-heavy doubt had never settled in mind, Tim would have liked to wake up when he first crawled into the ventilation of Robinson Academy. There was a tension in his legs that shook his knees as he crawled on them, pushing his elbows along the cramped metal vents. His arm was holding up well, thanks to the reinforced plating in the new armor, though a twinge of light burning circled the joint of his elbow with every few feet he progressed. 

 

The cowl that covered his head and most of his face from his nose up was made out of the same leathery material as the domino mask he was accustomed to, but one definite plus to this addition was that no one could see him sweat. In mid-summer, being in a long tunnel with your heat reflected back at you was probably one of the worst ways one could spend a Saturday afternoon. A couple of beeps signaled a channel opening up on his comms, and he maneuvered a hand by his head to hit the receptor. 

 

“ _ Robin, it’s me,”  _ Barbara’s voice had a fascinating way of relaxing every muscle on Tim’s body, allowing him to move a bit easier through the shaft. “ _ We traced Red Hood’s extra signal to the Sionis Industries mill, and Gail, Nightwing and Starfire have been dispatched in that direction. _ ” 

 

Tim stopped in his motions through the vent, trying to keep his voice down as he interrogated, “What? You let Gail go with them?” 

 

“ _ She’s trained, Tim. By Hood,”  _ Barb reminded him, a tiredness in her tone, “ _ Besides, we needed Batwoman and Catwoman to go with Alfred to the board. I suspect that our saboteur at the charity event that prevented the defense systems from going online is among them.”  _ A sigh through the comms, “ _ You and I both knew that she wouldn’t sit this one out.”  _

 

“She’s a civilian, Barbara,” Tim insisted, continuing to shimmy and by the sounds of shouting maybe fifteen feet to his three o’clock, he was about to reach his destination. 

 

“ _ So are we! We’re citizens of Gotham that decided to enforce the law without legal authority. She’s no different than us,”  _ The frustration in Barbara’s voice was tangible, “ _ Starfire’s not even a citizen of this  _ planet  _ and she’s helping us.”  _

 

Tim could sense something heavier in her words when she talked about Dick’s girlfriend, but didn’t comment on it. He decided to do the smart thing, speaking quickly as he saw lights pouring in through grates ahead of him. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m doing my best here…” 

 

Tim had heard it a thousand times, how she sounded when she smiled sadly. “ _ That’s all any of us ask of you, Tim, and it’s what I respect about you the most. _ ” 

 

“Barb?” 

 

“ _ Yeah?”  _

 

He paused in his crawl, listening to the hollering nearby. The lights from the grates about a foot in front of him were golden, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, “I just want you to know...that, uh...nevermind.” 

 

“ _ Don’t do that,”  _ She said softly, reminding him of when they were younger, years ago. 

 

“Fine, I’ll just say it before I go to work,” Tim whispered, tapping detective vision on and seeing a marked orange armed gunman with his back to the grate, another holding two blue unarmed people hostage. If he moved fast enough, he could get both in a few seconds. He shifted into the light, his hands braced under the grate. He closed his eyes, breathing in a slow lungful of air. 

 

“I should’ve kissed you before I left.” 

 

With a bang, Tim burst from the grate and wrapped his elbow around the first guy’s neck, flipping himself over the man’s shoulders. He crouched, throwing the yelping mass over his back cleanly just as the other thug started to turn around. The two collided, and with a hand to his belt for his bo staff, Robin raced over to the pile of thugs - he punted the first torso he saw, expanding his staff and whacking both men hard in the skull, the sickening  _ ping-ping _ almost forced the cringe out of the two unarmed onlookers. 

 

Tim collapsed his bo, clipping it back to his utility belt as he checked over two teachers. His eyes widened, but tried not to show his recognition of one of them. “Are you two alright?” 

 

They were both men, one middle-aged and balding and the other was only a few years older than Tim himself - the one he knew from when he taught at Robinson. He glared around, seeing that he was in the copy room. Several machines were arrayed around them, the walls were gray plaster and the floor was scuffed carpet. Tim jumped when he heard a thud close behind him. He spun around to see the middle-aged man lying face-down on the carpet. Tim tapped his temple, detective vision confirming that the man was out cold. 

 

“He’ll be fine,” He reassured the other man, who was shaking his head at his colleague’s limp body in disapproval. 

 

“Well that just figures,” Tim tried a sympathetic expression as the man nudged his coworker sharply with his toe, “Boasted all that active shooter training, even taught the damn class, and now that something actually happens, he passes out like a coward. Typical!”

 

Tim already knew who this was, but he had to keep up appearance like he didn’t. So many times had he seen Bruce treat Alfred, the man who practically raised him, like he had never met him before in front of others. He hoped his expression of concern didn’t betray a familiarity, “Are you okay, Mister…?” 

 

“Daniels, Mick Daniels,” The other man filled in, his blue eyes scrutinizing Robin, “I’m fine.” 

 

“What happened here? Speak quickly,” Tim said, injecting as much authority to his young voice as he could. He remained near to the walls, his shoulder brushing the plaster. 

 

“I think there’s seven of them total,” Mick estimated, a creasing in his forehead and Tim saw how his neck reddened with anxiety above the dress shirt collar. It matched his own growing coils of nervosa that constricted his chest, and as Mick talked, Tim grew antsier, “I was taking a walk during my prep period while the student body was in the gym for an assembly on the recent gang activity, how to stay safe from it, et cetera...I heard gunfire, and saw four of them through the door holding guns to the kids and teachers’ heads. Listen, I don’t think they’re just going to kill them - they’re  _ waiting  _ for something. Probably you.” 

 

“Dammit,” Tim swore, more to release some of the tension building in him than anything. He pressed his shoulder blades to the plaster, his hand digging inside one of the compartments on his crossing utility belts.

 

Mick’s mouth twisted, “You are up for this, aren’t you?” 

 

“Allow me to let you in on a secret,” Tim offered, hooking a finger under the edge of his cowl. On the outside, he seemed collected and confident. But just beneath the skin, Tim was subconsciously crunching the numbers on the probability of his success. The odds weren’t looking good. “The masks? We only wear them to hide just how young we are…We’re never up to it. But that doesn’t mean we won’t do it _ … _ Just trust me.” 

 

“I hope you understand what this is,” Was all Mick said, the exasperation evident in his voice. “You’re our only chance at surviving this without anyone dead. I  _ need  _ to know that I’m not just putting another kid in danger by letting you-” 

 

“-if  _ Batman  _ were here, would you ask him if he was up to this?” Tim said, his mouth taut. He didn’t mind some good-natured worrying, but this bordered on patronization, something he’d just about run out of patience for. He went to the door, slowly turning the knob and peeking down the hallway as he said, “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been a teacher, Mr. Daniels. I’m young, sure, but you said it best - I am your only chance and your best one.” Tim shot him a look over his shoulder, the blue eyes full of young determination, “And I’m going to make sure nobody dies.” 

 

“Wait, where are you going?” Mick asked, coming forward. 

 

There was an upturn to the lips beneath the cowl. “Art class.” 

 

…………………………………..

 

Teaching fine arts had never been Ms. Brown’s first choice of occupation, but when a guy in a suit points a semi-automatic at her students, there was no where else she would rather have been. She took up a stance many teachers had over the years living in Gotham: feet apart, back straight, eyes locked on the gunman and with her arms outstretched, standing in front of her students. It was a small class, only five for her still life seminar, and so her arms were long enough to shield the two that hadn’t been quick enough to make it to the closets - where the other three students were stashing themselves. 

 

The oldest student of them, an eighteen year old girl named Harper with hair dyed teal, was nervously glaring between her teacher and the man who was holding them hostage. Harper had  _ chosen  _ not to go into the cabinets. 

 

“Listen, you don’t want to do this,” Ms. Brown was saying, struggling to keep her voice calm and neutral so she wouldn’t set the man off. He was already twitching around his eyes and his hands, especially the one with a finger on the trigger. 

 

The man shook his head rapidly, almost violently. “I have to do this, I have to wait until he gets here.” 

 

“Who?” She couldn’t believe this. They were just pawns. Bait. She refused to take her eyes from him, but saw a table in her periphery, where a row of clay paperweights of different species of birds had been cooling. She’d fired it in the kiln in the back that morning, and it would still be very hot, but hard enough to knock the man out - she hoped. 

 

“Robin,” The man whispered, and she could see the pulse pounding in his throat as he turned his head to watch the door, “Or Batman.” 

 

Ms. Brown let out a sigh. That was just perfect. She was being held at gunpoint so that the men could have the fun and save the day. She was doing the hard work here. She blew the blonde hair out of her face. It was only a matter of timing. 

 

A minute went by. Ms. Brown felt someone get closer to her, and a voice whisper in her ear, “My phone is still in my desk...if someone calls it, it’ll ring.” 

Harper. Ms. Brown didn’t approve of her student formulating risky plans like this, much less risking a conversation with an armed gunman right there. But it wasn’t like they were going anywhere unless something happened. All she replied with was, “Back pocket.” 

 

Thin fingers reached into the back of her carpenter’s belt, which completely encircled her waist but was filled with paintbrushes and sculptor’s tools. Harper kept the rest of her body as casual as she could, her heart hammering in her chest so hard that part of her thought that the man would definitely hear it. She tried to calm herself, convincing herself she was playing an extreme version of Operation, only it actually was life or death. It didn’t help. Finally, her fingertips pinched the corner of her teacher’s phone and started to retrieve her hand. 

 

“Tell me your name,” Ms. Brown attempted to get him talking, to focus on her instead of Harper. 

 

“I can’t,” The man replied, his voice breaking. “Mr. Falcone will kill them if I told you that.” 

 

Harper was dialing, she could hear the soft tapping of nails on a touch screen, “Kill who?” 

 

“I’m sorry, I’ve already told you too much-” 

 

Ringing loud like a siren’s song to Ms. Brown was Trapt’s ‘Headstrong’, and the man whipped around at the sound, stalking up to the desk. Brown snatched up a paperweight bird and ran, smashing the clay figurine into pieces into the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, banging his shoulder off a desk with a smack, and Brown checked - he had a pulse, but unconscious. He’d have a hell of a headache when he woke up. She kicked away his rifle, picking it up. 

 

“Good work, Harper,” She said, and Harper beamed until she added, “Now both of you, get in the closets and stay there - like I told you.” 

 

Harper opened her mouth, but Brown shot her a look that killed the idea of talking back where it began. Obedient but reluctant, she and the other student - who had been on the verge of soiling himself since this ordeal began - got into the closets with their classmates. 

 

“Are the rest of you okay in there?” She asked after a moment, collecting herself. 

 

Mumbled ‘yes’s, and a bit of wheezing from the closet closest to her answered. “Jeff, it's okay. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

 

She heard labored sniffing and listened as her youngest student's breath slowed. He coughed. “Thanks, Ms. Brown.”

 

“Sure,” She said, pushing the heels of her hands into her lower back which cracked with the movement. 

 

She wobbled on legs that didn't want to move like her shoes were filled with sand, staring at her shoes at she did, over to where the man's rifle lay. It was still loaded. The safety still off. She could hear the protests in her body's participating joints as she bent to pick it up by the grip like it was a dead rat. It was heavier than it looked, and it was warm. A churning in her stomach told her to put it on the counter, and in the end she listened. 

 

She decided to wait by the table of birds, her eyes moving over them. When the click and turn of the knob broke through the silence like a police siren, she slid her hand under the belly of a ninth grader’s clay robin and hurled it at the opening door. It struck the corner of the door, shattering to the floor in shards. 

 

“Hey, I'm friendly!” Came a startled voice through the entrance.

 

Brown's eyes grew bigger and rounder as someone did come in, but as to what this dude was wearing, she had no clue. Black cowl that covered much of his face, dark red cape over a red jumpsuit with crossing yellow belts over his chest next to the ‘R’ over the hub over his sternum. How many utility belts does one man need? He had yet another belt across his waist. She’d never seen a getup like that on any vigilante from Gotham City. 

 

She had her hand under another robin and lifted it like a warning as she demanded, “Who are you?” 

 

“Relax, I’m Robin,” He said, his hands up like she was pointing a gun at him instead of a clay figurine, “I’m just trying out a new suit.” 

 

“Well...you don’t look like a robin,” She said, lowering her robin, but didn’t put it down just yet. “Robins are brown, save for the red on their chests.” 

 

“I...didn’t pick the name,” He admitted, and somehow the way his cool voice curled in her ears almost willed her to trust him. How his eyes turned downward at the outer corners, like he was always smiling in the eyes even through the cowl, gave him a perpetual boyish expression. “It’s a mantle. I’m just the third guy to wear the costume, but that’s not important.” 

 

He tilted his torso sideways to look past her, to the closets where she knew students were poking their heads out to see him. “How many have you got there?” 

 

She didn’t have to turn around to catch them; at his question, they dipped back in and shut the closet. “Five. We’re the only ones not at the assembly in the gym, they’re the people you need to save right now.” She nodded towards the man unconscious on the floor. “This one told us that they’re holding them hostage to lure you out. Or the big guy.” 

 

Robin cocked his head to the side to see around the table, which had hid the gunman from his view when he’d come in. He ambled over to him, kneeling and tapping on detective vision. Unconscious, struck by a blunt object in the back of the head. From one of his belts he took a pair of cuffs and bound the man’s wrists together with them. From a compartment in the back of his waist belt, he produced a handheld industrial stapler and stapled the chain between the cuffs to the ground. 

 

“Enjoy your nap,” He muttered, standing up again and observed the clay shards around the body, “What’d you hit him with?” 

 

“Same thing I chucked at you,” Brown pitched the clay figure in her hand up and down. “A robin.” 

 

With mild interest, he glanced over at it. It was finely carved, probably with a tiny hook tool to add the feathering texture on the wings and the holes for nostrils. Accurate anatomy and proportions. To say the least, the attention to detail was impressive; carved into the throat of the bird was the initials ‘SB’. 

 

“I should probably think up something new to call myself,” He mused idly, tearing his eyes from the robin in her hand and inverting them down upon his own uniform. “I don’t even look like a robin.”  _ And there’s no Batman to justify a Robin in Gotham.  _

 

“Well, you do,” She reassured lightly, chewing her lip as she watched him move towards the door to check the hallway, “You’re just a robin...you’re just redder.” 

 

He paced back to her, a question in his gaze and after a moment, he asked it, “Listen, the office is just down the hall. Everyone outside the gym has been taken care of, it shouldn’t be that difficult. After I leave, wait ten minutes and then I want you to move your students from here into the office. Take his gun with you, just in case. I’ve set up a monitor there that shows the security feed in the gym. I want you to watch it.” 

 

“For what?” Her face pinched with confusion. 

 

“For me,” He told her, his heavy hands on her shoulders, “I want you to watch for me. If I’m successful, and nobody dies and I don’t die, I’ve got Commissioner Gordon’s number on a note by the phone. Call it and tell him not to come in until I come out with the hostages. Can you do that for me, Ms…” He searched her purple blouse for a nametag, but found none. 

 

“Brown,” She said, her mouth a tight line, “Stephanie Brown. Yeah, I can do it.” He tried to leave, but she pulled him back by the elbow, “What do I do if you aren’t successful?” 

 

She’d expected some arrogant Han Solo-esque show of “come on, it’s me!” out of Robin, the charm she’d heard rumors about when she was a kid. She expected him to play off the prospect of his own mortality, like a run-of-the-mill hero. 

 

As if reminding her that, as he’d said, he was the third guy to put the ‘R’ on his chest, he didn’t. His lips only spread into a calm smile. He knew he might die, she realized, he just doesn’t care...or maybe, he can’t care whether or not he dies. Or won’t. Tim was reminded of the man who came before him, and how he hadn’t cared either. “Make the call to Gordon. Just tell him that I did what I could.” 

 

He turned his back to her, stalking to the door again and checking the hallway again. 

 

“If you get into the vents in the cafeteria,” She said, her hands shoved in the front pockets of her carpenter’s belt, “It’s a straight shot to the gym.” 

 

He’d already known that. That was actually the route he planned to take. He tossed the words over his armored shoulder, “I’ll keep that in mind.” He pushed the door open, and halfway through squeezing through the slim opening, he said, “You know, you’re really supposed to have your nametag on at all times. It’s in the handbook.” 

 

“How did you know I’m supposed to-” She began to ask, but he cut her off as the door was closing. 

 

“Spoilers.” And the door clicked shut. 

 

“Now, wait a second-” Stephanie marched over there, feeling her face redden and opened the door again, finding the hallway completely empty. No trace of him. She let out an indignant huff, her hair fluttering away from her face. She swiped a hand down her face, shutting the door and resting her back against it, sliding to the floor. 

 

After a few seconds, she got back to her feet and said firmly, “Class, you heard him. Out of the closets.”

 

……………………………………………………

 

When Ms. Brown closed the door he was perched just above, his feet on the lip of the frame above the top rail and his hands braced on the ceiling, he hopped down onto the balls of his feet and broke into a run. The soundless steps made his heart seem even louder, his cape billowing behind him and in the reflection of the windows in his periphery, he looked like he was flying and the freedom that spiked the blood in his veins had him running even faster. The corner of the gym was just forty yards away, and the cafeteria doors even closer. 

 

The hallway grew dimmer and dimmer as light from windows was scarcer. Looking ahead to the gym, Tim saw the lights encroaching out into the hallway from it and two strips of shadow in that light. Someone was in front of the door. He slowed to a stop, before sinking into a deep crouch and sticking to the corner of the wall and the floor as he went along. He checked both directions of the hallway, before crossing the width of the corridor into the cafeteria. 

 

He crept along between the long tables, his knees burning, until he slipped unnoticed into the kitchens by vaulting over the counter. He straightened, glaring around. So far, so good. His ears picked up on muffled noises, and immediately zeroed in on the enormous freezer set into the wall with a large metal door, his heart frozen with dread. 

 

His hands fumbled on the metal clasps, and grunted as he forced the huge door open. Three shivering women in aprons and hair nets shrunk back at the sudden sight of him, huddling together. He told them, reaching his arms out to them, “It’s okay, you’re safe now. I’m...” He amended, trying out a new name on his tongue, “I’m Red R-” 

 

“-We d-don’t much c-care who you are, son,” One of them, a woman on the other side of seventy with pronounced smile lines and peppery hair bound in a net. “We’re just glad someone came. Thank you, son. Thank you so much.” And she threw herself into his arms, both to thank him and for the ample body heat. Her co-workers followed suit, surrounding Tim. 

 

Initially, Tim was shocked by freezing bodies pressed to his warm midsection but he wrapped his arms around the old lady, rubbing the tops of her shoulders. “You’re welcome.” He gently broke free, and told the three of them to leave through the delivery door on the side of the kitchen, then make their way to the police barricade in the parking lot. 

 

He watched them go with a weight that slouched his spine. He hadn’t seen his own mother in months, or his father for that matter. Tim cast away those thoughts from his mind, and once they were gone, he busied himself to find the metal grates in the floor behind the counter. He dragged the coverings off before he sunk himself into them, resealing the entrance. 

 

These vents were larger and Tim didn’t have to lay flat on his stomach to maneuver through them. He found, with a degree of disgruntlement, that these weren’t much of an upgrade, though. All fours, he crawled through the vents and debated the chances of his survival again. His last number crunch before he did what he had to do, his final calculations. 

 

Compared to diving into the Steel Mill after Batman over a year ago, the chances were significantly better, but...something tore at him about this one. It wasn’t that he didn’t have a full list of what this suit could do, save for the scribbled notes Jason safety-pinned to it. And he couldn’t make heads or tails of Jason’s scrappy handwriting. The material felt light on him, a bit more weight with the extra length in the cape but it didn’t bog him down. It wasn’t that there were a lot of kids that could potentially get hurt while he was taking out men. He knew how to contain a fight. And to prevent one from starting. There shouldn’t be any more than four men left in the gym. He had more than enough snapflashes. 

 

The nerves in his whole body crackled like a live wire. He had been in cage fights that were less daunting. Maybe it was just his youth...but Jason was barely two years his elder, Dick five or six. Abigail and Barbara were between them. He was the youngest of their band, and he hadn’t seen half of the horrors his predecessors had. But...he liked to think he made up for it with a certain wisdom, a soundness of judgment that Jason and Dick lack. Jason never looked before he leapt, and Dick - in the particular zest he brought to everything he did - often found himself in trouble.

 

He analyzed every step meticulously before he dared take a single one. Even though it drove a wedge under Jason’s skin and between them, he couldn’t afford to take a day off the spying, the surveillance, the studying, all of it. It was for his family. All of them, Jason included, were his family. He hadn’t seen his mother or father in months because he needed to keep them safe. Because they, in turn, would look after Gotham...they would look after him. 

 

Tim was a big believer in reciprocity. Even if Jason hated his guts most of the time...Tim couldn’t help but remember that night all those weeks ago, in Penguin’s lounge...when Jason put down his gun to save his life. Jason, who was so full of murder and rage and tragedy, damned his own vendetta for his sake. Tim internally kicked himself, because how did he repay him? He snuck behind his back to manipulate Gordon to place sanctions on Jason to bring Falcone in alive. He snuck behind his back to spy on him and Abigail. 

 

He told himself it was to protect him. And for ninety-nine percent of it, it was to protect his brother returned from the grave. But for the other one percent? He wanted to figure it out. Tim had seen the video tape. He’d been perusing the BatComputer and found it...he’d had nightmares about Jason’s torture for months. He wanted to find out how Jason survived, how he got through it and still retained a shred of his humanity. Because that could very well happen to Tim. Jason was at the top of his game when he’d been taken...as Tim was now. 

 

Tim shuddered in the vents remembering it all. He’d told himself it was to protect Jason, but for that tiny part? He wasn’t sure he measured up. What he’d said to Barbara when Jason was unconscious...that was all true. “ _ If he's got problems with me replacing him, it's warranted...because so far? I haven’t earned it.” _

 

He was alone now. There was no Batman with his perseverance, no Nightwing with his zeal, no Batgirl with her brain, no Red Hood with his courage. No one but Gordon just outside the walls to help him. And even Gordon couldn’t help him now. He had no backup. No backup  _ plan _ . He had to save those children. He taught most of them. He owed it to them to save their lives now. His eyes stung with the implications if he failed. 

 

So, as you can imagine, what paralyzing terror filled his lungs as he inhaled the fumes of gasoline in the vents and lifting up his gloves, seeing wetness on his fingers. And the distant whooshing noise as he saw fire and light racing up the vent to meet him. 

 

…………………………………………………………….

 

The head of the Falcone squad that had locked down Robinson Academy, a stocky older man named Matches, had gotten a sick kick out of the fact that it was him who’d dropped a lit match into the vents after they’d dumped a can of gasoline there. There was something satisfying and beautiful to him, watching the glassy liquid ignite and the image reflected on the other sides of the metal vent. He closed the hatch, and threw the matchbox over his shoulder. 

 

He turned his piggish eyes on the horrified, wide-eyed students, and said as if giving advice, “Don’t let anyone tell you those thermobaric charges are better than good ol’ gas and matches. They do the same job with the same results.” 

 

He stretched his arms out, panning his view over the expanse of the gym and the sea of young minds around him. His men were posted at every exit, two at the front and one at the back. Everyone, the students and the teachers - even the principal and administrative staff, were on their knees in rows with their hands over their heads. The principal had been the earliest show of resistance and was now lying on the ground, clutching his chest. The only sound to be heard throughout the gym was his wheezing and gasping as he nursed broken ribs and a possible punctured lung. The school nurse, across the aisle with her hands in her hair, stared at him, helpless to act herself but quietly mouthing instructions to the vice principal on how to keep him stable. The example was clear. Anyone who dared, be they student or staff, would suffer worse. 

 

Matches tutted his tongue, and rasped lowly, “Lesson number two, kids. Robins aren’t good luck, don’t let anyone tell you different.” He caught the nurse’s temple flexing as she mouthed instructions, and slowly hobbled up to her, until his mouth was right by her ear, “They’re bad luck...they’re very  _ bad  _ luck.” 

 

He jumped alert, as did the hostages, when the grate burst open with an echoing  _ bang _ and a big black burning something burst from the vent, flying up to the high ceiling and dropping pieces of fabric onto screaming women and frightened teenagers - hanging along the bars for the basketball hoops by what seemed to be claws. It burned still as Matches and his men opened fire on it, unloading their mags on it until the black thing was lifeless and the mags were empty. It was limp and tattered, slightly smoking as it hung there more like a corpse dangling from a rope than a bat perched upside down. The ‘claws’ that had held it up were shiny, stuck into the bars by a sharp edge. But one yank at the long fabric, which didn't seem destroyed by the fire, and the objects holding it there were dislodged. 

 

Matches picked it up, his eyes catching the grooves in it made to look like feathers. It was some kind of projectile, he figured. Like ninja stars. The ‘R’ engraved in the middle was clearly visible. He glared around, and narrowed his eyes at the main entrance by the cafeteria, where his brother was posted. No one stood there now, and some of the teens held smugness so big on their faces it might as well have been a neon sign. He staggered over to them, shrieking into the hall, “Dave! Where are you?!”

 

No one answered him, and he spun around, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him - the way the shadows crept closer as he turned. His hands twitched on his gun, shaking the aim on it as he stalked back to the nurse and tapped the muzzle to the back of her skull to force her to stand. He muttered, “Yeah, you won't get me if I've got someone…”

 

But as he switched his view from front to back, he saw one of his men he posted at an exit on the ground and the other was jogging over to attend to him. How did someone move that fast without making a sound? He hyperventilated through his nose, jabbing his gun at the nurse's temple. “You've got a lot to learn, don't you, boy? You're not a man yet, oh no…” 

 

“Something was planted on him, sir,” His man had something in his hand as he made his way to Matches. It was circular, or was, before it was detonated. Sticky underside, and also had an ‘R’ engraved in the side. “Like a bomb or somethin’. Knocked Ace right out.”

 

“Ace’s a lightweight,” Matches scoffed, signaling for him to return to his post. “Strong gust’a wind could knock that kid out.”

 

But as he turned his back to him with his hostage, his man saw a similar device planted on the nape of Matches’ neck and started to say, “Boss!-”

There was a sound almost like a gun firing, but something zoomed past Matches’ shoulder and hooked onto the front of his suit, securing a line and then a bright red mass burst from the kneeling crowd of teenagers, soaring through the air as the zipkick retracted. A heavy boot collided with Matches’ face and chest, tearing him away from the hostage before he was thrown back into the last gunman. They landed roughly on top of each other, and Robin was perched on Matches’ chest above them. There was something in his hand, a clicking noise and then the tube expanded out into a staff, and the last Matches or his henchman saw was the blunt end of that staff being bashed against their heads. 

 

Tim’s mouth spread into a grin, collapsing his staff and returning it to his belt. But as he finally released the breath he’d been strangling back in his chest, he heard slow clapping. More joined in, a chorus of whoops and cheers from teens and staff under pressure, and Tim felt the blood rush to his face. He glanced up at his cape that was hanging from shuriken, his grin fading into a simple show of gratitude. Fireproof lycra and titanium blend, probably. 

 

Under his breath, he said,“Thanks, Jason.” 

 

……………………………………

Being as undermanned as he was with the state of emergency Gotham was in, Gordon took it upon himself to pass out shock blankets to the witnesses from the Robinson Academy crisis and decided to write down one of the most interesting statements of his career: a teacher’s account on how his daughter’s vigilante boyfriend saved the two-hundred-plus lives of the students and faculty. His officers were inside, rounding up the gangsters left unconscious, and he was outside amongst the cars and paramedics tending to some of the more roughed up hostages. 

 

He draped the wool material around thin shoulders covered with blonde hair, and asked, fishing his notepad from his back pocket and a pen from behind his ear, “Alright, so state your name for the record.” 

 

“Stephanie Brown,” She said, her hands clutching a clay model of a bird with a red chest. 

 

“Can you tell me who saved you and your students?” Gordon already knew the answer. This was protocol. This was procedure. 

 

Her lips trembled, but her eyes were glued to the bird. 

 

“I understand this has been very traumatic for you,” The Commissioner said softly, “Would you like some water or food?” 

 

She shook her head, her hair bouncing about her face. “No, that’s okay...I know who saved me...He was the…” Her gaze fell on the bird. “He was the Red Robin.” 


	47. Broke in a Gutter

“There is nothing.

No education.

No family life to open my arms to.

You'd say that my job is today, yet gone tomorrow.

I'll be  **broke in a gutter** .”

  * Pantera, “Strength Beyond Strength”



………………………………………………..

 

So far, six different people had come in. Different shapes and sizes, both men and women, and each of them with different methods of torture. Falcone hadn’t been in to see me since I got here hours ago. The most creative any of them got was to drench me in water and shock me with jumper cables. Nonfatal, none of them got close to my heart, but props for thinking of it. It was a chick, too.  

 

Just about every part of me hurt. Most of them went after my weak ankle, which was predictable as hell but effective. I probably wouldn’t be able to run if I did manage to get away. The last guy that took a whack at me had a watch that read that it was almost nightfall. That was about two hours ago, but I should probably add another twenty minutes to that. My awareness of the passage of time was a little blurred with my head ringing like a police siren. One of my eyes was swollen shut, and it stung with something that had nothing to do with the torture. 

 

In this white room, I was the dirtiest thing here. Covered in blood and grit and dirt. It stained the floor in dark red streaks. Something I read once...something made of words in the back of my mind told me that this was just another form of torture. The kind that bleaches your brain and leaves you with nothing else but this one thing. I was the dirtiest thing here. I needed to be cleaned. But the rage in my gut, the pure burning rage forced that thought out of here. The only things in this world that needed scrubbed clean out of existence were Carmine Falcone, Talia al Ghul, and whatever’s she made from the memories she stole from me.

 

Old manufactured, programmed instincts that were once deafeningly loud and urgent, but now were faint and weak told me that Batman did this. Batman was the reason why I was here. But tiredly, for the millionth time I reminded myself that I created my situations now. I created myself. And I will finish it the same way. But that won't happen anytime soon.

 

I was lying on my stomach, fighting to keep myself breathing evenly. I closed my eyes tight. The periphery of my mind was being bombarded with bad memories, and as my head rang, it was that damned laughing...His laughing. I pushed my palms against my ears, gasping and crumpling into a ball despite the stabbing in my stomach and chest where my sternum and ribs were cracked. My manacles dug into my wrists, and there would be rings, I could feel it, around them where they’d been rubbed raw. 

 

I’d nearly succumbed like this four times in the time I’ve been here. But I had something now that I didn’t last time. A method to pull myself back from the edge. I tasted the blood in my mouth, and imagined her voice, that steady voice, telling me to breathe slow and calm. Her hands on my face, mine on hers. I imagined holding her like she had shown me, with my arms around her and her head under my chin. I whispered, pushing myself to sit up against the wall, my eyes on my chains bolted to the floor, “Come on, Todd. She’s coming. She’s coming for you. They’re all coming for you.” 

 

I forced my mind into a corner, the tactical field. As Arkham Knight, I lived in this corner. I dreamed in this corner. I existed in this corner. What do I know about my captors? They rotated every three hours to beat me, never the same way and never for the same period of time. Each session ended with them getting a call from Falcone. I only got food once, and it was still sitting on the table by the door, with my armor and weapons. I’ve tried to get to that table so many times, but my chains just weren’t long enough. 

 

I heard metal creaking, lifting my heavy head up as the door swung outwards and in strolled Falcone in a white suit, his black eyepatch stark on his face. It hurt to look at him. He didn’t bring his cigars with him, only a manilla folder tucked under his arm. He stared holes in my wounds, as if he was trying to dig into them with his gaze alone. 

 

“What brings you to my humble abode, asshole?” I rasped, coughing with the effort of dragging words from the air in my lungs. My eyes searched him, for anything - a paperclip on the folder he was carrying might help, the thicker section of his pantleg might be a gun. I gathered my strength and braced myself against the wall to attempt to stand with the bad leg. I managed a half-assed lean. 

 

He watched me struggle with his hands in his pockets, and nothing in his face but pity. He asked me, the pity morphing into a patronizing sneer, “Having trouble standing on your own two feet?” 

 

“Having trouble seeing out of both eyes?” I shot right back, clearing my dry throat. “I’ll ask again. What do you want?” 

 

“Wednesday Winona Winters,” Falcone said, stepping nearer but not near enough, “Or Abigail Byron, if that’ll help jog your memory. I want to know just how close you are with her.” 

 

I tried to restrain myself, believe me. I couldn’t give it away. I tried -  _ tried  _ \- to maintain a neutral tone when I asked, “Why?” 

 

“Because I want to put your heads side-by-side so the temples line up,” Falcone said, and then pointed his finger, “And then shoot you both straight through. It’d be a waste of time and bullets to do it separately. Two people I hate most in this world.” 

 

“How efficient of you,” I said through gritted teeth, “‘Bout time you learned.” 

 

He ignored that, waving a dismissive hand. “I know just having you here will be enough to stir her from wherever she’s hiding, but will she die for you? Will she kill for you?” 

 

I knew that if I told him the truth, Gail’s death warrant would be signed. I’m not stupid. But if I lied to him...I couldn’t lighten it by any means. He would torture her, and the same result would follow. 

 

I straightened, shaking my hair out of my eyes. I was a good liar, but I was an even better manipulator, “She and I are barely allies through necessity. She wouldn’t lift a self-righteous finger to put me out if I was on fire. Even after all I did for that ungrateful, entitled bitch.” 

 

There was a pain in my chest. I didn’t like calling her that, even if it was a load of crap. I really, really didn’t like calling her that. I kept my face blank as he processed what I’d said, his single eye scanning me up and down. 

 

“But would she trust you?” Falcone asked, trying to fish for something. I had an idea of what that was. 

 

I remembered what she’d said when I first brought her to the firehouse.  _ I trust you...and not because I’m kinda forced to, either.  _ “She’s not that foolish.” 

 

He rubbed at his brow in concealed frustration. “If you told her to go somewhere, would she show up?” 

 

Something frozen slipped into my chest, like I’d drunk ice water too fast on a hot day. What did he  _ want  _ with her? I asked, aloof like it was out of curiosity and the words didn’t taste like rot, “What do you want her for? She’s somewhat useless. I can’t imagine what use she’d be to you.” 

 

“Let’s just say that she’s a bigger knife in my back,” He said, the discomfort on him almost tangible as he shifted his weight onto the other leg. “Sorry to disappoint you, but believe it or not, she’s quite dangerous. Perhaps just as dangerous as yourself.” 

 

“I wouldn’t go that far, but kudos to her,” I said. She’s more dangerous than you know, old man. “I always thought she was just pretentious and depressed...but I’m a bit offended you don’t consider me a greater threat.” I widened my eyes, spoke with mock dejection and in a tiny voice like a thirteen year old girl confessing her love, “I mean...I killed your son, took our your eye and blew up your businesses. Jeez, I only wanted you to notice me. What’s Abigail got that I don’t? My ass is nice too, you know.” 

 

His face soured and he charged up to me, throwing a fist into my gut. I barely got my hands up to distort the force of the blow. As I keeled over, he kneed me in the cheek. I dry-heaved, the wind knocked from my lungs. I wheezed a laugh. “Aww, just havin’ a little fun, Carmine. No need for this.” 

 

He growled at me, another shot in my side, “Do not be so eager for Hell, Mr. Hood.” 

 

I groaned, favoring my side and slumping to the floor. Smugness in his eyes, he adjusted his blazer and left, walking with his hands behind his back.

 

I stopped mid-whine, the muscles in my face relaxed. I rolled my eyes, coughed and spat blood on the floor. The things I do for my work. 

 

I uncurled my fingers, the light on Falcone’s Rolex shining in the light. It was almost ten at night. I muttered, dropping the watch into my boot, “Already been.” 

…………………………………………………………………….

 

The last time she was preparing to kill Carmine Falcone, Abigail Byron been shaking so badly as she checked her first gun that she had dropped it. She was still a teenager then, with chin-length hair and young eyes that guilt had never touched longer than a day. 

 

This time, her hands were completely steady and she knew what she was doing as she checked every part of both handguns and her ammo. Behind her in the Clocktower armory, Dick was adding gadgets to the new belt that came with the armor Jason had forged for him. The alien princess that he’d introduced as Starfire was downstairs readying some transportation. 

 

Gail slipped both guns into holsters on her belt, then threw a smaller .380 into her boot next to a short fighting knife. She loaded ammo into almost every compartment on her belt, adding a zipkick and a collapsed bo staff to clip onto the back. Her expression was logical, methodical and completely detached. She had nearly broken down in her old house the last time she tried this, and she’d failed. She wouldn’t have it this time. 

 

Gail picked up the last piece of weaponry she would rely on with this mission: a pair of battle gloves with retractable claws that Jason had made for her. His last gift to her. She used her teeth to tighten the straps on her wrists, tasting leather and it smelled like he did, which made her chest ache. She inspected the metal plating on her knuckles and fingers, how each plate was meticulously cut. She remembered how he spent hours perfecting each one. She’d brought him chamomile tea that night, his favorite when he was up working. 

 

She thrust thoughts of him away from her mind, confining herself again to tactics. One of the first things Jason taught her about fighting with any kind of weapon was not to bog down with so many. It’s not about how many weapons you bring to the fight, it’s about how long you can fight well with fewer weapons. Agility guarantees survival, not firepower. 

 

She fitted the smallest ballistic vest onto her torso. Jason had forged the plating for this early in her time living with him. It was mostly recycled from his Arkham Knight armor, all black planes and blunt edges at the joints and along her muscles. She struggled with the straps at her lower back before larger fingers pushed hers out of the way. She jumped and turned, but relaxed as she saw Dick with a sympathetic smile as he fastened them for her. 

 

“Nervous?” He asked, all the concern of an older brother. 

 

She shook her head. “No.”

 

In some part of Dick’s mind, he registered that this was the same girl who had sat in a chair weeks ago, and told his family that she watched her mother die. And then tried to bring her killer to justice in a one-woman operation when she was eighteen. 

 

He knew there was a side to Abigail that was logical, philosophical, and would be reasonable; on the surface, she resembled that side. Unassuming, quiet, reserved. But there was another side to her, Dick knew, that had shot at Alberto Falcone because he pointed a gun at Harvey Bullock. There was a side to Abigail that was unhinged, that seethed blood like she had in that chair blindfolded - telling Tim not to play deduction games with her...likely because she played them better. Because her logic could be manipulated to justify just about anything. Even murder. 

 

And Dick had an eerie feeling that her anger began long before she met Jason. 

 

Don’t get him wrong, Dick believed Gail when he said that killing Falcone the first time was an accident. He trusted her to have his back and Star’s in a fight, to do what needed to be done to bring Jason home, and had grown to like her over their communiques back and forth when he was in the Caribbean. But this time? He knew there wouldn’t be any hesitation about a repeat occurrence. If Falcone was on the other end of her gun, she would pull the trigger. And she would mean it. She kept touching that gun now like she sensed it would happen, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with fear. He thought it had something to do with a question. A question that began with “what if…”. 

 

“I know you're strong, Gail,” He said, tightening the strings that cinched the waist of the vest. “But it's perfectly fine to be a bit unsettled at your first field op.”

 

“I'm not unsettled, just...really focused,” She said as he tied and double-knotted the strings. She moved to face him once he was done, to look him in his sky blue eyes, “I don't even care to get Falcone, I just want Jason out of there.” 

 

Dick smiled at her determination. 

 

There, he could see why she meant so much to his brother. Dick was indebted to her. For him, helping Jason leave his horrors was a gradual process that he had to assist him with when he could. Protecting two cities didn't leave Dick with much time, and guilt twisted his insides whenever he saw Jason close up to him when he wanted to help. Gail had been able to be there for Jason around the clock, anytime he needed someone - she was there. 

 

He patted her arm, “You and me both.” 

 

“Listen, I...I just want to say I'm sorry,” She said, her eyes tearing from his and darting to the floor. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I'm sorry I lost him.”

 

“Hey,” Dick tapped under her chin lightly to get her to look at his earnest face, “It wasn't your fault. If the goof hadn't ziptied you to a pipe, things might’ve been different. He needed you to get us that second tracker signal anyways.” 

 

Gail didn’t have the nerve to tell him that she wished it was her instead of Jason trapped with Falcone. She knew the Don better than his own family, Jason didn't. And sure, Jason could survive torture that she would die from, but even so, she wished it was her enduring it. He had endured more than enough, in her opinion. 

 

“Whatever you say.” She walked away, leaving the armory with him on her heels until they were behind the chain curtain in the elevator. 

 

She felt numb as she brushed her back to the metal walls, staring at her shoes. Dick glanced at her after hitting the button for the launch bay, seeing how the muscles in her neck jumped as if surprised when the elevator started moving. She could feel the loaded air, she knew it meant that he had something to say. 

 

Thing is, when he finally did talk, she got the sense that it wasn’t what he actually wanted to ask her, “Want to run over the game plan again?” 

 

Gail had caught on pretty quick about just how chatty Dick was, but unlike most, she found herself relaxed by him. Instead of retreating into doubt and fear, the byproduct of loneliness and silent hours, he brought her into a conversation. Took the pressure off. “Yeah, let’s do it. So, in about forty minutes from the time we get into the…what do you guys call the thing?” 

 

“The Batwing,” Dick said, his composure cracking at the name. He wouldn’t tell her that it was him that came up with it when he was twelve. And the unflappable grace Bruce had to adopt it on the spot. 

 

The corner of her mouth perked up. “The Batwing, and we’re flying south to Wharton forest to Falcone’s compound - the one I told you about - where Barb found Jay’s signal.” 

 

He nodded, “Starfire will fly us down onto the roof. Star will keep Falcone from getting outside help, and you and I will get Jason out of there with Barbara guiding us.”

 

“Okay, one question: just how strong is Starfire? Like, I know you said after the briefing that she could lift you and me just fine, but…?” Gail asked him. “Are there limits?” 

Dick grinned, rubbing his hands together, before explaining, “So this is actually really cool, because y’know Superman?” She nodded, stepping closer and putting a hand on her hip as she listened, “He’s actually an alien from a dead planet called Krypton. Kory - Starfire is from a planet in the next star system over called Tamaran.” 

 

“Tamaran?” She repeated, the word strange but a joy to say. Part of her realized that she’d met an alien earlier and didn’t even know it. Inside, Gail was beside herself with curiosity

 

“Yeah, she’s the princess,” Dick said, his eyes lighting up when he saw hers widen in surprise, “I know! She’s kind of a big deal. But their power, hers and Supes’, they both work from solar energy, right? He’s a good bit stronger because he’s older and Kryptonians are much more powerful with yellow suns like ours.” He held his hand out flat at shoulder-level, “So he’s about here in strength?” He dropped his hand a few inches. “There’s Koriand’r.” 

 

“That’s fascinating,” Gail said, her astonishment genuine and it tickled him pink. She lowered her voice and asked him, “I don’t wanna be weird or anything, but she’d be the first alien I’ve ever met. And I’ve always been a believer in other words and such, with people like Martian Manhunter around - so...would she mind if I interviewed her? Just ten minutes…?” 

 

“Oh no, she wouldn’t mind at all,” Dick shook his head, holding his hands up. “When I met her, she’d only been on Earth a month and she was having trouble making friends. Didn’t get humanity or things like metaphors.” He chuckled, “She’d love to talk to somebody. Plus, she’s heard a lot about you.” 

 

Gail’s temporary spell of intellectual curiosity and lightheartedness ended abruptly. Her gaze went downwards. “...what’ve you told her?” 

 

A  _ ding  _ signaled the halt of the elevator, and the doors to the launch bay swooshed open. A tall, feminine silhouette was walking towards them against the amber-orange light of the sunset peeking around the GCPD building. Gail saw Starfire’s green eyes and strong limbs in a whole new light as she came into view. 

 

“Are you ready to go?” Star asked as Dick greeted her with a kiss on the nose. 

 

“About as ready as we can be,” He replied, his arm snaking around her waist. 

 

Watching them twisted something in Gail’s stomach, and it clicked: she was the third wheel on his trip. She wished Jason were there again. Her hands were cold and empty, and she saw a flashed image of how he would look at her like Dick looked at Starfire...With the corners of his eyes crinkled, a cheeky grin smeared on his face like wedding cake, white streak in his black hair hanging in his hair to be combed away with a hand, and not seeming for one second self-conscious of his brand. Even if ‘happy’ was something he didn’t wear often enough, Gail always thought it was his best color. 

 

“Are you okay?” Starfire asked, breaking her out of her thoughts with bright lime green eyes and a sincere concern about them that caught her off guard. 

 

“Just tired,” She moved past them, saying casually over her shoulder walking to the Batwing, “Let’s get going. The sooner we get Jason, the sooner we can end this whole thing.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

As her back shattered the stained glass window on the second floor of Falcone’s mansion, her midsection wracking through with pain from the forceful kick to the gut that her armor muted, and she dropped through the rain of colored shards, Gail had never imagined anything so terrible and so beautiful. As she fell, her body a ragdoll in midair, the light flashing off the glas fascinated her dazed eyes and for a moment, she was flying. Held aloft by nothing, but still falling. She heard someone shouting, but the sounds were distorted to her own ears. 

 

Her fall was broken against the thick plating on her side by a rotting branch from the decaying oak tree she’d seen close by the mansion, and another branch below it caught her sloppily, but it was another six feet before she landed - on her back. The wind rushed out of her lungs with the impact, and it was a few seconds of gasping before she finally got enough air to break from the panic. She desperately searched the pockets on her pants until she found her inhaler, taking a puff and her face reddening as she held the medicine in her lungs for ten seconds. 

 

She clutched at the ground beside her as she coughed, looking to her hand. She sifted through the dirt and grass, finding the little peek of white and yellow through the brown and green. Her eyes found the daisy. She was armed to the teeth, drowning in armor and weaponry...she’d joined this crusade so fast. It was like she’d been waiting for it, waiting to do what she felt needed to be done. She’d written about it. She was finally putting her money where her mouth was, and doing it with incredible people. She was saving her inspiration right now, he was inside waiting for her...and yet this tiny flower was in her hand. She opened a velcro pouch on her leg, and put it inside. 

 

She sat up, and remembered that Dick was alone up on the second floor. She glared to the hole she’d left in the window, and the man that had kicked her was poking his head out, trying to see her through the branches. Scrambling and not thinking, Gail’s hand reached to her belt for the grappler. She flicked a switch on the settings on the side and from the ground, she aimed and fired - the claw grabbing the man by the collar. She yanked back hard, and with a surprised yelp, he flew from the window. She arced the grappler up and then drove it down with a grunt, the speed of his descent multiplied. He didn’t have the benefit of branches to break his fall. He fell the two stories to the ground, on his head with a sickening  _ crack _ and his body collapsed around him. 

 

The hook on the zipkick reeled back into her hand, but she barely noticed. She was staring at the body she’d just created. Gail hadn’t killed anyone since she was eighteen. She was nothing if not careful. She got to her feet shakily, stumbling to his side. His head was split wide, blood and a pink-flesh toned something oozed out of there. Gail didn’t feel sick, seeing this. She tried to reason with it. He’d just kicked her out of a window, with the intent to kill her. He might’ve made another attempt if he’d seen her on the ground. She knew the logic that would justify his death and would deem her innocent by self-defense. She hadn’t killed anyone since she was eighteen, and now, in her twenty-third year, she had killed again. For what? 

 

“Gail!” She heard a shout from the window again, and without hesitation, she drew her gun. But when her eyes caught up with her aim, she saw Dick saying, “Whoah, hey, it’s me!” 

 

She shook herself out of whatever that was, holstered her gun. His gaze went to the body but didn’t comment. He said instead, “I found an earpiece on one of the guards, said Jason’s about to be moved-” 

 

She didn’t wait for him to finish the rest of his sentence, she flicked the settings of the grappler again and aimed for the ledge. The claw caught and the retractor kicked in, a startled squawk as she zoomed up to the ledge. He stepped back fast, but she stopped the grappler early, her chest pounding against the floor. Her arms grasped for a handhold, but Dick helped her over the ledge before she fell, “I know, it takes a while to get the timing right.” 

 

Gail got her feet beneath her inside, rubbing the plates over her chest and breathing hard. That was definitely going to bruise.“Where’s Jason going?” 

 

“There are four floors to this place,” He said as he broke into a run, her struggling to keep up with his long strides, “The fourth is underground, the Batwing scan we did showed a great big facility all underground in these woods.” 

 

“Jason’s gotta be there,” She said, her asthma from the run lessened by the hours of training she’d put in with Dick’s brother. 

 

They rounded a sharp corner, her shoes squeaking as she changed direction and she was actually rather proud of herself when she came up alongside him. He grinned at her and she returned it, her heart slamming against her chest as the thrill and high that came with the prospect of saving Jason today engulfed her completely.  _ When you become somebody, girl, remember the good people of Gotham.  _

 

Her promise to Pauli Moore tolled through her head like funeral bells. She was somebody now, she was running with Nightwing to save the man who helped her reinvent herself into someone incredible. She was running to save the Red Hood, and bring the man who tore her family apart to justice. Gail couldn't believe it, she could sob with relief. She was going to do it right this time. 

 

The corridor ended with an elevator, and it was opening its doors. She and Dick ran faster, their feet pounding against the hardwood floors until they slowed to get inside. She caught her breath, leaning against the back wall while he mashed the button for the basement. But he didn't slouch, he craned his neck up to the ceiling and connected his escrima sticks into a staff. There was an open section of the elevator, closed with a hatch. A few precise thrusts of the staff's end into the hatch before the enclosure broke. Dick returned the escrima sticks to their sheaths on his back, then jumped and heaved himself onto the top of the elevator. 

 

Gail stepped away from the wall, and for the first time in a while, kicked herself inside for being so small. She got down on her haunches, her hands behind her hips until she straightened and jumped, barely reaching the edge of the opening by her fingertips. She swore under her breath at the residual pain that bolted through her fingers, old wounds of the charity event come to haunt her. 

 

Dick quickly knelt to help her, tactful in keeping the boyish smirk off his face. 

 

“Don't tell Jason about that,” She said, peering through the crack between the shaft and the metal edges of the elevator. She felt uneasy, she'd never done anything like this. But she understood why. If an elevator opens up with Nightwing and Falcone's bane, it'd be a bloodbath. “I'd never survive the onslaught of short jokes.”

 

“What - five foot four?” Dick guessed, a wry look in his eye. 

 

She huffed. “Five foot five.”

 

He only laughed, his hand going through compartments in his belt. She drew her guns, rolling her shoulders and bouncing her weight between her feet. 

 

Anticipation compacted her insides like a press, and sweat started to bead at her brow, slicking her blonde bangs to her temples. Her ponytail swished between her shoulder blades, and some part of her felt years younger, like she wasn't ready for this. Like she was a kid again, being asked to do something she can't do: shake like a leaf and feign bravery. But she's done that before, she reminded herself. And whether or not she could do it again was a question that might’ve kept her awake if she'd had the chance to sleep…

 

It was only hours ago that she'd been in that kitchen in the firehouse with Jason Todd, asking him to let her take care of him. It was only hours ago that she'd fought with him to take down an assassin that Jason told her was one of the most dangerous women on the planet. It was only hours ago that she'd struck that assassin across the face because of something unacceptable said about Jason's torment. 

 

It was only hours ago that she'd traded in her degree in ethical philosophy for a pair of handguns and battle armor. She had switched between scholar and savage at an age most would think unthinkable. It was all too easy to dig into the half-organized rubble of her mind and find that switch. She did it first for her mother, who dedicated and lost her life for Gotham and her daughter. She did it again for herself, for the girl on the storage container watching her mother die, and transformed that girl into the embodiment of karma and a vessel for justice. She made a mistake, and locked that person away. 

 

This time, it would be for Jason, the mystery man that gave her a calling in between talks of morality and befriending their humanity. Gail Byron carved into her heart and found that vessel inside nestled next to her backbone, found Wednesday Winters on the day she first killed, and promised her that she would never stand by again while a braver person took the fall. 

 

She thought of the daisy in her pocket, and breathed. Her fingers curled around the triggers familiarly.  _ I'm coming, mystery man. I'm coming for you.  _

 

“Get ready,” Dick's voice broke her out of her reverie, and he lifted a handheld circular grappler she recognized as a line launcher from her lessons with Jason. He wrapped an arm around her waist, “Hold on.”

 

She did, an arm over his shoulders for stability and her ankles locked around his knee. He fired the line launcher, wired claws digging into either wall and stopping them mid-descent. He hung from the grip, and they watched the elevator go on without them another fifteen feet before slowing to a halt. Gail’s hand on Dick’s shoulder tightened and she clung to him as the elevator was fired upon as soon as the doors slid away. After it ceased, raised voices could be heard and the doors closed again. Dick slowly extended his arm, Gail gripping his hand till she let go of him and fell the few feet onto the top of the elevator. Her shoes made a soft smack, but she hoped that it wasn’t loud enough to reach the owners of the voices. She shrunk against the wall, watching what he did and raising her guns to the ready. 

 

Gripping the short handle of the line launcher, he jackknifed his body and heaved himself up onto the thin wire between the walls. She remembered that he was an acrobat, and watched him with interest as to how he was going to dive head-first into the hornet’s nest of people between them and Jason. He kept his balance with his legs wrapped around the wire, reaching both hands behind his head for his escrima sticks. Blue sparks crackled from the ends as he drew them, sending cobalt light through the shaft and it reflected off the white of his teeth. 

 

A voice from below came closer, “Did you hear that?” 

 

Dick shifted his body, bouncing the wire up and down and then jumping, his escrima sticks high in the air. Gail flinched back against the wall as he zoomed past and the electric crackle-boom as they impacted the floor of the elevator was loud, sending waves of electricity up the walls. She understood now why the rubber soles of the boots were so thick. She heard the soft thuds of bodies hitting the floor, probably from the shockwave Dick produced and his euphoric whoop as he ran off in the direction of growing noises of commotion. 

 

She scooted herself towards the opening in the elevator, dropping herself through it and running after Nightwing straight into a warm mass of hot air that permeated every space in this place. The room the lift led to was wide and almost too well-lit, elevated platforms circled around with weapons racks on every wall, circular doors like vaults and a skinny hallway cut into the wall on the left, and the bottom floor Gail was on seemed to be split in half. The half she was bolting into was a drug hub, chemical equipment that smelled overwhelming strong of a mix between fingernail polish and paint fumes. Dodging a spray of bullets, Gail had to duck behind a table covered with this equipment, and her college years brought back memories of wrong place, wrong time instances that reliably identified what their drug was. Crystal meth. 

 

She dug in her cargo pants for a flashbang, and she found one, shouting to Dick - wherever he was, “Nightwing! Flashbang!” 

 

She felt something heavy leap across the table with her as she threw the live stun grenade high enough into the air to draw attention. She shut her eyes as it went off with a deafening  _ BANG! _ , which rung her ears and shook her hands at her gun as she rose while the gangsters were disoriented. She squinted, her fingers squeezing off round after round at the attackers that were standing already and as she rounded the table - Dick surpassing her in a sprint to vault himself up onto the higher levels by the ladder - she jumped mid-run onto a crate to strike a Falcone thug in the face with the metal plating on her knee. She landed, diving behind another table and rolling onto her back, kicking up the edge to overturn it to shield her from bullets. 

 

Those affected by her flashbang and weren’t bleeding from gunshot wounds were beginning to reorient themselves and fire, and she glanced up to see men running from that skinny hallway that she’d seen earlier. Dick was up there, flipping on the railings and running along the walls to avoid blades and bullets alike. More ninjas like that Shiva woman Gail remembered seemed to be coming out of the floors, and the room got more crowded. Gail burst from her hiding place, grabbing the man she’d knocked out earlier to use as a shield. 

 

That’s about when she saw him. Falcone was standing in front of an enormous furnace set into the back wall, and as she got a better look at the second half of the ground floor of this sub basement, she realized what it was used for. Surgical trays with everything from brassknuckles to butterfly knives, meat hooks that hung from the ceiling. But her eyes then locked onto Falcone’s and his single eye onto hers, his face reddening with anger. He shouted something at someone off to the side, and in her periphery, her eyes refusing to leave his, she saw that this someone was three times her size and twice Dick’s. 

 

Before she knew it, Gail was running and her hair blew wildly behind her, her guns firing without discrimination at him and anyone who moved close to help him. Gail had never told anyone this aloud, but the man she came here to save knew it well enough when he first watched her shoot. She was her mother’s daughter through and through, and June Winters had held the best shooting record on the police range, still yet to be broken. Falcone advanced up to her, barking at his men to focus on the lunatic practically flying from wall to wall on the upper level. 

She got low, sliding between his legs and kicking herself back standing off of an anvil resting by the furnace. Scorching heat raced up her back as she turned to face him, and she darted her eyes to his hands. A hand cannon in one hand where his white button-down was rolled up to his elbow, and coiled around his other arm was a ebony-black metal sleeve that crept up to his shoulder, serrated blades protruding from his forearm and around his knuckles were spiked barbs. Gail felt nausea and dread crawl up her throat, her face paling. 

 

“I should’ve killed you the moment I saw you, hiding behind your father’s leg!” He yelled, curling his sleeved hand into a fist and a whirring came from it, the knuckles beginning to glow from black to bright red and yellow. A sizzling replaced the whirring noise, and Gail felt her knees want to shake, but forced them steady. Hearing him speak brought back memories of saltwater tasting tears and the way her childhood home never smelled like blood. “I should’ve crushed your neck  _ under my boot! _ ” 

 

Gail set her jaw, and held back the stinging in her eyes as she said back, her voice a calm held at gunpoint. “I killed you by accident last time, but I’ve since realized a couple of things. That  acting on instinctive reflex to kill scum isn’t an accident. And secondly?” Her eyes deadpanned into a murderous cold. “I should’ve aimed for your head.” 

 

Almost within the same instance, on the same heartbeat, they both rose their weapons and charged each other, his shout echoing through the space. 

 

……………………………………………………...

 

Nightwing was a being of pure flight, both flight towards and away from the enemy. He hadn’t seen Gail and Falcone going at it on the main floor like rabid dogs until they were already fighting, and he wasn’t about to be the one to pry them off each other unless Gail was in trouble. From what he could see, they were working off one another without either getting much headway - Falcone rusty from over a decade of disuse through death and Gail small and quick but nowhere near the physical brute her opponent was. She was playing a game of cat and mouse, only the cat’s claws could sear her flesh right off the bone. 

 

He returned to his own fight, League ninjas approaching along the narrow catwalks that hugged to the walls of the room brandishing katanas. The heat of violence and confidence sunned his cheeks as he heelkicked a Falcone henchman over the railings with a strong, solid leg. He blocked the first slash of a katana from a female warrior with the blunt side of his escrima stick, before following with a roundhouse kick to the head of her comrade to get space. He disabled the first warrior’s wrist with a knifehand chop, moving his escrima stick to the back of her neck and working his knees up as he drove her head down in strikes. When he saw another ninja racing towards him to help, Dick let go and dropkicked the first one into their backup. He sprang to his feet again, laughing as if having a marvelous time. The assassin pushed the first off him, and as he stood, his face soured as Dick beckoned him closer with a hand. 

 

Dick slipped his toes under the fallen katana and kicked it up into his hand, returning his escrima stick to its holster. He twirled the sword as he said, “If you want me to, I can just use your weapons. I know, I’m a pretty accommodating guy.” 

 

The warrior merely rolled his eyes, but he never maintained his foothold. Something above ground seemed to have gone off like a bomb, shaking the ground and knocking almost everyone in the sub-basement off their feet. Loose pieces of the concrete ceiling rained down, breaking into smaller bits as they impacted the floor. Dick fell against the railings, holding on through the shock wave and when he righted himself, his first thought was to Starfire. He desperately tapped his comms, demanding as he glared around the ground floor for Gail through the dust that filled the air, “Star? Star?”

 

“ _ I apologize, Dick. That was me. We had company and I needed to turn them away,”  _ He heard through the other end, her voice light and jovial. He had an irresistible urge to find her and kiss her in that very instant, but that would have to wait. “ _ I’m okay, keep going!”  _

 

“I’ll keep you posted,” He said, finally spotting Gail using a crate to brace against as she regained her bearings. 

 

“ _ As you say, ‘roger’!”  _

 

Dick flipped over the railings, and dropped into a roll as his feet smacked against the floor. He jogged over to her, but before he could, white-hot pain shot up his thigh as a knife dug itself in the back of his thigh. He cried out, falling to his knees from this blindside and Gail whirled around at the sound. Dick was then very aware of two katana blades crossed around his throat, like a pair of scissors threatened to decapitate him. Without thinking or giving himself away, he held his hands in front of him and pressed a finger to a button on the wrist of his gauntlet. A red dot appeared in the upper left of his mask display, recording everything that happened from then on.

 

It started with Gail’s spine straightening immediately in alarm at the sight of Nightwing on his knees, in danger of death at any given moment and at any given command by the man who touched hot steel to the back of her head, her scalp burning against it. The ninja who had her swords around Dick’s neck was not one she recognized, but her glowing green eyes above the mask over her mouth unsettled Gail. Something dead in a gaze that didn’t seem quite human. 

 

Gail began to hyperventilate, the sweat on her face meandering down her features. Her guns were taken from her, tossed to the few henchman standing and the two ninjas behind them held their swords and longbow ready...She guessed it was just in case one of them was brave or stupid enough to run. She caught Dick’s eye, and saw the pleading in them, not to save him, but not to worry. He was fine. He’d be okay. The mission was what mattered here. Not his safety. He was pleading with her to finish the mission. Find Jason. Get him out of here. 

 

“It was a fine attempt,  _ Wendy _ ,” Falcone growled in her ear, and she visibly flinched at the hated nickname, at his hot breath tickling her ear. “Poor pathetic girl, still waiting for your happy ending. Don't you get it yet? You don’t have a happy ending. And neither does he.” He turned his face away from hers, calling to one of his men, “Bring him out.” 

 

Gail, despite the gun to her head, felt her heart lift with slight relief. His name was ricocheting through her head. But then the woman holding Dick hostage spoke up, a lithe accent twisting her speech, “I don't remember telling you that you can give orders, Carmine. Do what you wish with her,” Her eyes drifted over Gail’s form with disinterest, “She's your vendetta. But the Red Hood is mine. I'm not finished with him. And this one,” She scraped the skin of Dick's neck with her katana, him stiffening and gritting his teeth. “This one and his woman are nothing but meddlers. They don't know a lost cause when they see one.”

 

“Wait, wait!” A voice that rose anger in Gail’s chest rang out from the far side of the room, heavy-heeled footsteps and a wheezing cough after a run. 

 

The smoker's lines, the crow's feet and the coward’s slouch, Gabriel Winters came into view and stared at the gun Falcone held to his daughter's head. He paid her outfit no mind, nor the confused vigilante she had come in with. 

 

Gail did not feel relief in seeing her father. If anything, a cold shard of ice buried itself in her gut. Even as Gabriel cried, “Get that thing away from my daughter!” 

 

Falcone's smug laughing made Gail shiver, and he said, as if Gabe asking him to spare her was hilarious, “Figure it out and take a good long look, Gabriel. Say your goodbye to Wendy before I gut her.”

 

“Please, Carmine,” Gabe pleaded, and Talia boredly shook her head, signaling one of her assassins to take her place holding katanas to Dick's throat. The others did not pay much attention to her departure with the rest of the League force, save Dick. It seemed that Talia had bigger fish to fry. 

 

“Please,” Gabe repeated, his voice nearly to the point of begging, “She's all I've got.”

 

“Don't you waste your breath now, Dad,” Gail said coldly, staring through her filthy bangs at him. “Not after twenty years of ignoring my existence like I left a bad taste in your mouth.” 

 

“Wendy, I’m-” He started to say, but she cut him off. 

 

“ _ Don't you dare  _ call me that! It's not who I am.” She snarled suddenly, her pent-up years of rage erupting and Dick used this opportunity to tap instructions to Starfire on his gauntlet. 

 

Falcone was getting frustrated, and he dug the muzzle of his gun into Gail’s head, “I'm tired of this. The only way she leaves is in a bag, Gabe. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be.” Falcone's eye bore into Gabe's, “You know what she did.”

 

“I do,” The editor said, pushing his hands into his eyes till he saw stars. 

 

Falcone's mouth twisted then, into something that churned Dick's stomach. He was glad Gail couldn't see that face. Gabe turned stark white. Carmine said, practically purring, “I've got an idea. No loose ends. Everything in the open between you and your daughter, Gabe. It’s the least I can do.” 

 

And then she felt his hands on her, and she squirmed and fought him with a scorching shame, but he found his prize quickly. Her mother’s gun. Gail felt that stinging, always the stinging...and she let it water her eyes but didn’t let it fall. Dick’s eyes on her were apologetic and sympathetic, as if he’d seen black conflict between father and daughter for too long and would’ve given anything to stop this one. Gail watched the metal of her mom’s gun spill the light of the room until it landed in her father’s hand. 

 

“She thinks you have no backbone,” Falcone explained, standing to Gail’s side but still with his gun on her. “She thinks you abandoned her and her mother for a few perks and a successful business. She thinks you stood by while I killed June Winters, and then did nothing about it. She thinks you toasted her death with me afterwards, glad to not have to go through her to see your daughter. She thinks that the fact that you didn’t confront me about her death was because you were afraid of me. Well, that’s what she  _ thinks,  _ but I  _ know  _ every part of it’s true.”

 

The heart in her chest, if it wasn’t throbbing in her chest with heartache and panic, she would’ve thought it was dead. It felt cold, like she’d had a transplant and a heart entirely made of ice was shoved in. Her father was there, with her mother’s gun in his hands, holding it like he had the day after she died. Like it was something he never wanted to see again. 

 

Falcone raised his voice, calling grandly, “So here’s your choice, Gabriel. Me or her. I order you to kill her. You’ll kill your own daughter or I’ll kill you. I’ll throw you in this furnace behind me. Wouldn’t bother me a bit.” Gail couldn’t stop the first tears falling, and she forced herself to stay still as they fell down her cheeks. “But if you decide to, you can kill me. Shoot me right here,” Gail saw Falcone tap the bridge of his nose. “You might not make it out of the building alive, but you’ll have done something for your daughter before she joins you.” 

 

“Wait,” Gail said, turning her face to Falcone and requested of him, “Before you do...b-before this happens, I want him here. I want to see him.” 

 

Dick’s mouth popped open at that. She loved Jason. She loved him and doesn’t want to die without seeing him. Under his breath, for the first time in years, he prayed with his eyes open that he’d see Starfire and Barbara again. And that Gail would live through the day for his brother. 

 

Falcone didn’t have patience for it, smacking her in the crown of her head with the butt of his gun, “Shut it. He’ll be joining you soon enough. Gabe,” Gabriel shook his head, looking up from the hunk of metal in his hands, “Choose. Me or your daughter.” 

 

Gail couldn’t look at her father, because it felt like staring into the sun and if she stared too long, it’d be over quicker. She chose to stare at Dick instead and he did the same at her. A conversation opened up between them wordlessly. She was urging him with the gravity of her gaze to tell Jason everything. She knew he wouldn’t tell her everything that she wanted to say, but he got the gist. He nodded, a promise in his eyes that he’d keep if it killed him. He would tell Jason that she loved him. 

 

Gabriel Winters, contrary to popular belief, had loved Gail’s mother, had loved June Winters at one time. But Gotham, the city...it infected both of them in different ways. June was up close and personal to the news he reported, often crossing paths by chance in all sorts of places: drug busts, great crime spectacles with Batman at the center. He fitted his hands into the foreign weight, taking care to not touch the trigger until he was ready. He set his shoulders, and examined the weapon at length. He had not touched a gun in twenty years. 

 

“Take the safety off, the button by your thumb,” Gail’s voice was calm, all the instructive calm of her mother. Tear stains down her cheeks, her heart slowing in her chest as she resigned herself to what was about to happen. He did as he was told. “Now take the slide, on the top with your thumb and pointer finger.” He did, struggling with sweaty digits. “You’ve got it. When you fire, watch for the kick.” 

 

Soft crying wracked through Gabe’s shoulders as his daughter instructed him on how to use the weapon she might be killed with. His eyes finally met hers, and in the stormy gray-blue of them, he found the soft, vulnerable girl had hardened into a young woman of steel. She looked at her father, her mouth a line and her hands tapping at her sides in anticipation, it seemed. 

 

“Well, Wendy,” Falcone hissed in her ear, in a voice that was the sick version of a friend joking with another at the prospect of doing something foolish. He sounded confident to her. Trusting her father to kill her, “This is it. Any last words? Anything you’d like to tell the nice man?” 

 

Gail closed her eyes, shut them tight. When she opened them again, she clenched her hands so hard that her joints ached. She said, “My name is Wednesday Winters, and I…” She swallowed a painful sob. “I tried…” 

 

God help Gabriel Winters, he thought about both choices. If he chose Falcone, he would suffer a slow burning death in that furnace at the cost of his daughter’s forgiveness, maybe. If he chose his baby girl...if he chose her, Falcone would reward him. If he chose neither…his gun switched between both of them, a man driven insane by the decision before him. 

 

“Dad,” Gail spoke again, burying her pride and hatred for him for this one moment. Digging a hole so big it ate at everything he’d done, tossing it all aside. This was her father. Her flesh and blood. “Dad, it’s okay.” She coughed, hoarsely telling him, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. We’re okay.” 

 

Gabe’s heart stopped. She was forgiving him. She was forgiving him for all of it. He almost dropped the gun. 

 

She said, her voice weak and Dick’s eyes started to water, “Listen to me.” She licked her dry lips, before she called him something she hadn’t since she was nine, “Daddy. Daddy, I know you’re scared but it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” 

 

Falcone rolled his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of death. He knew it would come for him again at any time. Last time, when a shakier Wendy Winters came to kill him, he hadn’t expected her to pull the trigger. Now, he expected  _ everyone  _ to pull the trigger, and it was freeing. He didn’t care to watch himself. He didn’t care about anything. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be alive. Talia al Ghul had never asked him before she dumped him in a Lazarus Pit, but he wasn’t about to complain when he was offered to pick up where he left off. Lucky for him the world had gotten much more interesting while he was dead, and little Wendy Winters had turned into a fiery thing. 

 

And he couldn’t wait to snuff her out. He was curious whether or not Gabriel was really going to do it for him.

 

In the end, Gabe chose himself. He took the aim of his gun away from his wife’s murderer and his estranged daughter and pointed it under his own chin. At least, he told himself, this would be painless. Gail took a half-step forward, Gabe telling her fast after a deep breath, “I love you.” 

 

Gail’s scream sounded like windchimes caught in a storm as he pulled the trigger. Click. He squeezed it again and again, more clicks sounding. He broke down, and Gail fell to her knees as if unable to support her own weight any longer, while Falcone began to laugh - low and menacing until he was full-on belly laughing. 

 

“Didn’t even know it wasn’t loaded,” Falcone said, holding his palm out and nestled there was the full mag’s worth of bullets. He signaled one of his men to come closer, “Take Gabe here to Julian, the gun too.” He deposited the bullets into his henchman’s hand, and sneered, “Make sure Julian knows what he almost did, and what day it is.” 

 

The henchman had to drag Gabriel away, as the man couldn’t stand after what he had just failed to do. Dick was numb, unsure of what just happened and what was about to happen. His heart was breaking into pieces for Gail, his empathy leeching her pain from her and into him. When Falcone stalked over to him, knowing that Gail couldn’t move, Dick had no clue what to do or to feel. But he knew that his mask had recorded all of that. 

 

“You,” Falcone knelt, fixing his single eye on Dick’s face. “You will leave. I’ve no need for additional hostages, I’ve got who I want dead. And I’ll be winning the war in Gotham momentarily. Go home, take your woman with you, and prepare to die for your city. It’s the only option you’ve got left. I suggest you take it.” His eye moved past Dick and up, inclining his head. 

 

Dick snapped out of his trance, fighting the ninjas with what resolve he had left, but eventually, he left willingly. He knew where Gail was, and Jason too. He could return with reinforcements that day, that hour if he was quick enough. He held onto that, the promise that he would return to reclaim his brother, and the woman Dick respected within Gail Byron. 

 

Once they were gone, it was just one henchman, Falcone appearing pleased with himself, and Gail, who hadn’t moved from her place on the ground. She was lying on her side, her tears slipping past her nose and cheeks onto the concrete. Her bones were burning, her breath hot and stagnant in her lungs. 

 

Falcone shook his head at the sight of her, “Pathetic.” He beckoned his henchman closer, but made no attempt to lower his voice, “Put her with Hood while I reassess the situation. And strip her.” 

  
  
  



	48. The Bluest Things on Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I found you shaking at the lake  
> A hospital bracelet still tight to your wrist  
> We talked to fill the empty space  
> Danced on the ice until it breaks  
> They flooded a town so this park could exist  
> You see us walking on the streets in your dreams  
> The pills that they fed you  
> Your half awake eyes  
> The bluest things on Earth don't know shit about the blues  
> You used to burn…”  
> The Wonder Years, “The Bluest Things On Earth”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas.

 

The odd limbo between being dazed and dozing left me thinking about death. What would happen if I died, what did I want to be remembered for, things I never got much opportunity to think about when I was held by Joker. Then, all I cared about was alleviating different forms of excruciating pain and getting through one day after the next. The terror of looking into a mirror, a puddle, a piece of glass and each time thinking, hoping that the brand was gone and it had been a dream. But now, when all I had to worry about was a swollen eye, a screwed up ankle, and a thoroughly battered midsection, I imagined myself buried properly.

 

Nice suit that I’d never wear alive, covering all the parts of me I wouldn’t want anyone to see at my funeral anyway, but my brand would be clearly visible on my cheek. Even in death, I’d be marked by the madman. Dick would be there, he’d probably give my main eulogy. I didn’t know what his face would look like, if it would change that reflex grin if I died. Barbara would be rolled up, she’d talk about how she knew me as a brother and a friend. How I would have given my life for hers. Tim would be there too, talking about the integrity of a scoundrel as if I were a hero. Maybe I would’ve proven myself one by the time I died. Maybe I’d be buried a criminal.

 

I knew that even if Bruce remained away, Alfred would show up. I had unwavering faith that he would. He’d toss the first hunk of dirt in, I know he would. Abigail...My chest tightened thinking about her, strangling my heart like it was teaching me a lesson for falling in love despite all better judgment. I imagined her dressed all in black, holding one of my helmets in her arms. Maybe she’d get up there and say something for me, use that eloquence she always reserved for public speaking and reading to me. She might tell a story from the time we lived together, like how we’d call to each other to make sure the other was in the next room. How we helped each other through hard days. Maybe she’d talk about the note I kept in the same place in case she went going through my things after I died, the note I wrote after she moved in, the note that confessed how stupidly in love with her I was. Maybe she’d talk about how angry she was that I only dared to tell her how I felt when it was too late to say anything back. I would never tell her this to her face, but I always thought she was gorgeous when she was pissed at me.

 

And if the old man came to my funeral... If he showed his face for my sake, do “O Captain, my Captain” or some shit...Maybe I’d get some sleep. Maybe I’d stop running into danger just for the wild hope that someone might put things right by physically putting me into the ground. Sometimes, thinking about Bruce was like burying myself with a shovel too small to work quickly with. Sometimes, thinking about Bruce was like lighting myself on fire like a religious protest to legacies and elitist ethics. Sometimes, thinking about the only man who raised me was like explaining murder to a toddler.

 

Sometimes, thinking about Bruce Wayne was like thinking about my brand and who put it there.

 

I shook my head, my eyes struggling to stay open in this blindingly bright and white room. I pushed those thoughts out of my head. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t even close. I needed to do something, I needed-

 

-the door in front of me opened with an ear-shattering bang, and a tall man in a three-piece suit that looked like he had an argument with a sentient pair of scissors walked in, dragging in a much smaller body with a blonde head of dirty hair. I struggled to clear my vision, blinking rapidly until the blonde head turned to...I scrambled to my feet, falling to one knee once I put weight on the bad ankle, and I fought my chains, trying to get enough air in my lungs to cry out. But once I did, it was loud even to my own ears and it was the only thing I needed right now,  _ “Gail _ !”

 

The man pivoted and kicked the side of my face, the heel of his shoe right on my cheekbone. I recoiled back, my body’s movements delayed by seconds as I tried to get back up. She was saying my name, I knew it - I couldn't hear her but I knew she was calling for me. A small voice in my head, low and menacing as the day I was branded, sounded annoyed:  _ Come on, the girl's done. Just die and get it over with. It's what you want. _ My vision was blurry again, but the black chest - the armor I made for her - was slowly becoming the color of her skin, and she was fighting him, twisting out of his grip. I heard the word ‘no’ come out of her mouth again and again like a warped vinyl record, and heat exploded in my chest as my anger backed my limbs. “D-don’t you touch-”

 

Another foot right to my face, but I didn’t fall again, I just turned my head with the shot. My nose was bleeding, bad, but I needed to, I just needed to get to her. “Get _ offa’ her. _ ”

 

I heard her grunt with effort, a cracking noise like a hard slap and something heavy fell to my feet, groggy but still alive. It was within my reach, and I couldn’t tell you what happened next. All I remembered was that he was  _ within my reach _ , I was on top of him in a couple of seconds - pinned with one of my knees on his collarbones, and by the time I was done, one of his front teeth was lodged in the heel of my hand. Both of my hands were slick, and there was a large red stain on the floor under him where I’d grabbed his head and smashed it against there until I got tired. I remembered that part. I couldn’t see right yet, but I didn’t see any skin on his face, it was all red and black.

 

I was rasping blood and air through my body, gathering courage like I was catching smoke. I sat up, my vision slowly clearing. She was half-crouched against the door, her hands covering her chest as I saw the front of her armor was almost peeled right off her. She was hyperventilating, each exhale a wheeze and inhale a gasp. Her eyes were on her hands, wide and panicked, as if she wasn’t even sure her own hands were really hers.

 

“G-G-Gail,” I stuttered, crawling off the waste of space and towards her, but she flinched back into the door so bad she lost her footing and stumbled to the floor with a muted smack. I stayed put, held my hands up carefully and swished the blood and saliva in my mouth before hacking it all up to spit onto the floor to the side of me so I could talk. “Are you okay?”

 

Gail looked from her hands to the floor in front of her, shaking her head so fast it blurred her features. She readjusted herself in the armor and fastened it back up with slow fingers. And then she was seeing me, really seeing me, as if she were looking into the sun. She got to her feet, flicking her hair out of her face. “Jay, Jay, I-” Her hand flew to her mouth as she took in the injuries, the bright red and purple bruising on my ribs - the bloody nose, the swollen eye. Her hands were on my face, and all I could think about was wrapping my arms around her, but they were lead. I couldn’t move them, I was so damned tired.

 

_ I’m here. I’m okay.  _ I wanted to say so much to her. Alfred would probably scold me for neglecting the ‘thank you’ I should be giving her, but when I finally got the feeling back in my hands to move them, all I could do was touch her shoulders weakly. “Abigail, what are you doing here?”

 

“W-What?” Her eyes searched mine, that crease between her eyebrows when she was equal parts confused and offended. Neither of which I needed from her right now. “I came to rescue you; me, Dick and Starfire did...Th-They’re…” Gail licked her chapped lips, sucking in a breath and in a wild whimsical thought - I thought the stuttering was precious, “Jay, they’re going into G-Gotham for a final stand, we can’t stay here. C’mon, we can get out of here -  _ I _ can get you out of here.”

 

“Bet you can,” I croaked, my vision blurring as I saw her pull the man I’d killed closer to her in order to root around in his pockets. I didn’t see the shiny thing she grabbed, but I did hear the clinking of my chains falling free. I blinked rapidly, a desperate need to keep her in my vision flooding my brain to panic. Her hands were so warm when they touched me, curling under my arms. I tried to lift them, but the usual strength was gone; it was pitiful how I slumped against her, my face in her neck as she practically held me up, my heavy arm over her shoulders and I groaned at how being so upright strained my body. The healing skin on my back, which had been cut into again that morning, broke open and I felt the too-hot ooze of blood falling down the indentation along my spine. “G-Gail, my…”

 

Her neck was craning, her eyes on me - “I see it, Jay, I’ve got you…” She helped me over to the table that held my armor and the tray of food I’d been brought. Abigail stuck the chair under the table against the doorknob in a couple of seconds, while my first thought was to stuff my face with the stale bread. My childhood was rife with stale bread and near-spoiling milk, so right now, this bread tasted like the best French stuff I could find and I hummed with delight as I wolfed it all down. I glanced across at Gail, seeing her take the hood of my jacket in two hands and ripping it into sections.

 

“Now wait just’a- _ ow _ !” The protest that had been about to leave my mouth was cut off with a yelp as stabbing pain rippled up my back, Gail’s hand pressing the fabric against the reopened wound there. My fingernails dug into the stainless steel table, growling over my shoulder at her, “That was my favorite jacket.”

 

“Don’t start - it’s gonna save your life,” Gail scolded back in a harsh tone, “And while you may not value that, I do, and I am not letting you die here of all places, do you understand me?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” I tapped my temple with my fingers in a mock salute, but the mischief in my expression faded as my eyes found something that would make a hell of a difference in our situation. “Gail, over there, my armor…” As she reached for the stomach piece, I grabbed her forearm when I remembered the safety mechanism. “Hold on…” I lowered my voice and said as clearly as I could manage, “Armor lock code authorization _ lambda, Catherine, two-nineteen, Thaddeus, Wednesday. _ ”

 

I could feel her question-loaded eyes on me as the armor made a hissing sound as it disarmed, and I was able to pull it closer to myself, fitting the molded abdominal plates over my muscles. The metal claws along the sides of the armor laced up my back by themselves, and the built-in wound compression technology went to work. I lowered the shoulder and chest plates on next, the metal going along my spine joining with the torso piece. I braced myself as it forcefully straightened my spine, gritting my teeth. The gauntlets went on next, and the splintered bones in my forearm were set into place, a low noise ripping up my throat at the burning. Thanks, Lucius. My armaments had been taken to another room this morning - which didn’t matter, they were set to self-destruct after four days of being away from my belt and not disarmed personally. Moral of the story: touch my shit at your own risk.

 

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” I heard Gail say, and I waited as the compression tech secured my limbs, reinforcing the joints well enough for fighting. I glanced over at her, her eyes had that faraway look - she was preparing to fight, I knew. “Bad news is, I don’t know if I have transportation back to Gotham and even if I did, I don’t know if we’d get there in time to help the others.”

 

I wanted to tell her that she was talking to the guy who stole the hubcaps off the Batmobile, that if anyone could find us transportation - it would be me. But that’s if I was strong enough to contribute anything to this escape attempt. I knew one thing: I was in better shape now than I was the last time I escaped captivity. I asked, “And the good news?”

 

_ “I’m  _ armed.” She said. I caught the slight upturn of her lips, as she placed gun-shaped cold steel in my hand and I did not think anything else could be more reassuring. She stepped closer, the tangy smell of sweat and leather radiating off her, and there were loose strands of hair tickling my shoulders. Her thin fingers slid mags into my pockets, I pulled the slide back and cocked the gun she had given me. I tried not to look nervous about how my forearms actually flexed when I did that. I tried not to seem nervous about how the room spun if I wasn’t squinting and how vertigo was warring with my consciousness.

 

“Oh, sunshine, you are  _ wonderful _ ,” The cuts on my lip reopened as they stretched into a grateful smile, and I licked them, tasting blood.

 

I looked down, spying my white feet and how my right ankle was much thicker around with the swelling and was almost completely purple. I pulled my heavy reinforced boots from the table, dropping them to the floor and with Abigail holding me steady by my elbow, got my feet into them. The same compression technology took over, but with my right ankle, I heard the  _ fsshh _ of my suit being smart and the cool relief started to set into the skin. I sighed, grinning down at my handiwork. Gail was too, her hand still around my waist in case I got wobbly. “Looks like those cryo-whatevers are working well, huh?”

 

“Mmhm - alright, Gail, let’s get outta here,” I said, leaning on one leg to test range of motion with my bad ankle. Of course, still painful as hell, but I could walk a little easier now. She let me go, and I moved past her for the door with the translucent window cut into it. I put my back to the door, peeking down the long hallway and warm air kissed my face as I looked. A breeze?

 

The car alarm heart in my chest was pounding against my ribcage; that familiar high wail in my veins that only loved to scream one word in a staccato trill -  _ troubletroubletroubletrouble _ , was going off. I held Gail’s forearm tight, listening to the low roars of a furnace that must be the source of the abundant heat and the breeze. The white light of my cell poured out into the dim hallway, and from the other end was a warm glow that crept around the corner at the end. That glow dared us to move closer and I heard Gail tug at my hand, whispering, “Right down there’s the elevator out…”

 

“I know…” I whispered back, but I kept staring at the end of the hallway and feeling a need to go the other way. But just as I turned my head to the left, rapid footsteps charged up to us. Something heavy rammed into the door and the door nailed me square at the temple.

 

What focus I had melted into nothing, falling forward until my forehead impacted the wall. I felt hands, nails scraping loudly against my armor as someone pulled me up to standing. Gail shouted, and her forearm slipped through my fingers to meet the other sounds of footsteps racing up the hall. I closed my eyes as he - I guessed from the heavy masculine gasps in front of me and the beer breath in my face - punched me in the teeth. I felt his body lean backwards, and that was his mistake. I blocked the next punch with a forearm, wrapping my arm around his head like a guillotine and jamming it into the wall behind me. I drove a knee into his stomach and he collapsed. My eyes shot open, trying to catch the blond head of hair zooming around the hallway in blurry yellow strokes like she was being painted into motion. There were two men on her, but before I could try to stand to assist, she had one guy on the ground. There was a crunching sound as a white hand plunged into the man’s elbow, and then the other man tried to grab her from behind. She turned, just like I taught her, and kicked through his knee. He crumpled down to kneeling, and before he could grab his gun from his belt, Gail was raising her boot to kick him in the face.

 

She grabbed the side of the door to my cell, where the man’s was getting onto his hands and knees with his head between the wall and the door. My eyes grew wider and wider as she slammed it onto the man’s head, letting out a shout with each exertion. Six, seven, eight times she did this and more. The man’s head was split open, and she finally let up, bent over with her hands on her thighs. Panting, and flushed around her cheeks. My vision cleared, spitting blood onto the floor as I walked over to her. I took my time getting there, watching her in case she wanted to smash my head in the door too. My palms were up, shining and sweating in the armor. She looked up at me finally, my height making her crane her neck and I saw her eyes, relaxing when I saw Gail in there and not me.

 

“Are you alright?” There was a cut going across her jawline, blood running down her neck. My own boiled the longer I looked at it. She was about to smile, I knew the way her face pulled into it, and I knew how much I loved watching the muscles move, but she never quite got there.

 

I’ve been around guns most of my life, so much that I could identify a weapon by the wound it left behind, but right now, there was nothing I despised with every strand of myself than the terrible sound of a gunshot going off. My eyes widened, and I felt the hole punch through me the way it did her collarbone just where the armor I forged couldn’t reach. I felt her fingernails dig into my arms, and the bullet ricocheted off the wall behind her after it passed through her body. I calculated the trajectory as I slipped my hand down her thigh for the throwing knives, and as I pushed her to the ground, I spun on my heel. I flung the knife as hard as I could, watching it fly straight and true into the Falcone henchman’s forehead, burying itself deep into his head. Vertigo swarmed my senses, the crystal clear sight of the knife protruding from his face fading to blur and I lost my balance, falling to my feet. I did not see him hit the ground, but I heard him.

 

“Give up!” A voice echoed down the hall, and it was too loud, my eardrums ringing with both words. Gail was mumbling something I couldn’t make out nearby, my hearing garbled and it was like being underwater. This was the torture of the white room, sensory deprivation and the nerve-scorching pain. It wasn’t to kill me, or make me talk. It was to ensure I couldn’t escape if I tried, to make sure I was a hindrance to anybody who tried to break me out too. I tried to turn, tried to see Gail’s face. I needed to see Gail, but all I saw was a yellow and red mess that was blended in with the gray of the walls.

 

“Go to hell!” I shouted back, my own voice too loud and more from the frustration of not being able to see Gail than anything else, I shouted it again. “Go to hell!”

 

“ _ Dear boy, _ ” The first voice, warping with more syllables into something straight out of my boyhood nightmares and my memories of the place itself, “… _ You’re there  _ already…”

 

Frozen, I could not predict where the kick to my temple would come from - but I knew it was coming when I heard the footsteps approaching again. When it hit me, pain washed over my eyes and my head like a rush of ice water. I slumped to the ground, and as my hearing cut back in and out, Gail’s protests reached my ears as more footsteps moved past me to pick her up. Captured…I’m sorry, Gail. I’m so goddamn sorry.

 

…………………………………………………………………………

 

When I woke, it was so clear I almost fooled myself into believing that the torture of the past few days had all been a dream and the white ceiling I was looking at was nothing more than my firehouse's cracked plaster ceiling. I almost fooled myself into thinking that Gail would be calling to me, walking in to rock my hammock and wake me up for breakfast.

 

But when I looked over, spying a tall jug of water and noticing that my feet were elevated above the level of my head, raw terror slipped into my gut. Gail was next to me, her tiny feet elevated next to mine - the jug was between us.  _ Oh God, no. _ The torture had not ended...a new form was just beginning, one they hadn't tried yet...And I didn't have enough time to teach Abigail how to withstand it without giving in...The Catholic Venezuelans I trained called it ‘ _ ahogando al diablo _ ’, or ‘drowning the Devil.’ But Harley called it ‘washing my face’ when she did it to me, and I couldn't for a month after I left, wash my face…I remembered how the dirt tasted in the water…and being physically sick and panicked with water near the biggest rain forest in the world didn’t help.

 

Gail was coming to as well, a goose egg swelling onto her cheekbone. Someone had hit her, hard, but they’d apparently not wanted her to bleed out…her gunshot wound was wrapped. Her blonde eyelashes fluttered, her stormy eyes focusing on me before catching sight of the jug and once she really looked at my eyes, her whole body stiffened. She fought at her restraints, as I knew not to. I took minimal comfort in the fact that we were alone, for now.

 

“J-Jason?” She stuttered, blowing her hair out of her face and wrinkling her nose. “Wha-Why are we in here, strapped up like this?”

 

My heart fell through my chest and felt suspended below me. She doesn't know what's going to happen. She's scared. She’ll scream. I wished I could touch her, reassure her as my voice certainly wasn't by breaking as I said, “Gail, listen to me, okay? They're gonna hurt us. They're gonna make us wait, dehydrate us for a little and then they'll come in, and…” I trailed off, my head hitting the wooden board I was bolted to around my torso, wrists, hips, and ankles.

 

“A-And what?” She asked, her face getting white with fear. “Don't you bullshit me, you pause when you do that - tell me what they're gonna do to us…” I hesitated and she demanded, a bit louder. “Please, Jason!”

 

“Gail, honey, I'm sorry…” I knew. It was all over my face and she could see that, she could always see that. “They're gonna…”

 

I said the word lowly, barely above a whisper and her face paled even whiter. She repeated, in a terse voice and I saw the tears spring to her eyes. She'd known the name, she didn't know the setup. “They're gonna... _ waterboard _ us?”

 

I knew it was rhetorical, she could see it in my face and she rested her head back against the wood. She shut her eyes tight, the tears running to the sides of her face. Coldness slipped into my gut, that reliable ice that I knew she was going to hurt. I asked her, trying to emulate that confident tone I used during our training - the one I used when I wanted to encourage her, “Hey, how long can you hold your breath?”

 

“Jay, I have  _ asthma _ ,” Gail said back, and I knew she felt pitiful. She turned her face back over to me, her tears running down her nose and dripped off the button. She asked in a tiny voice, “W-What’s it like?”

 

I wanted to ask her whether she meant being tortured or being so guilty you didn’t want to cheat the waterboarding by holding your breath. She sighed, and I heard her swallow. The dam inside my vocal chords, the dam created so that she never saw me as that boy in Arkham with the brand on his cheek,  _ that  _ dam broke and it all came out like the flood. “I-It feels like drowning, it lives up to the hype the politicians give it and there’s a damn good reason we use it on terrorists, it’s because it works. They put this fabric, usually like a flour sack or somethin’ - something you can try to breathe through, and they stick it over your face and pour water. It floods your sinus without fully drowning you, but your brain don’t know that - your brain thinks you’re drowning and you’re dying and I’ve nearly drowned before,  _ there is no difference _ . The sensation’s the same and it’s possibly one of the worst tortures because it’s mostly psychological.”  _ And we both know I ain’t got the best psyche. _

 

I licked my dry lips, a weak noise leaving my mouth as my lungs got tight with the anticipation. “But the actual waterboarding ain’t got shit on the aftermath. I’d take waterboarding over the recovery any day…you can’t do water…You just can’t do it and it’s hard, Gail. You can’t face the stream in the shower, sometimes you just don’t shower and you smell for days. And rain showers, they just…” I trailed off, thinking I heard someone come in, and prayed to God it wasn’t time yet. It wasn’t. “Rain sucks and just the sound of dripping, it gets to you. It makes you fear the most plentiful thing on the planet and it’s not days or weeks, it’s  _ months _ before you get over it. And it doesn’t get better with each time…It doesn’t, Gail. So…here’s what’s gonna happen…”

 

“What?” Gail squeaked, and I turned my face, meeting her eye. The longer she stared, maybe ten-twenty seconds…the more she understood what I was about to do. She started to rapidly shake her head, her brows coming together and her eyes watered all over again. “ _ No _ , you are not gonna go first to buy us time. You’re starving and you’re barely strong enough to stand without the armor. You are  _ not  _ gonna do that, you’ve been through enough. You don’t deserve-”

 

“-you. I don’t deserve you,” I cut her off, pointedly and in that tone that told her that this was non-negotiable. My nose wrinkled, a muscle in my throat getting tight as I strained to push my face closer to hers, to get the point across. “This isn’t a conversation, Abigail. You wanted to follow me on missions, this is a mission - my mission is to get you out of here without any more trauma than you can deal with. You wanted to help me on missions. You can help me by following orders. This is an order. You will not get waterboarded before me-”

 

“-don’t you get domineering and gung-ho about you going through more torture, Jason Todd,” Abigail threatened, not backing down an inch. “You have been torn apart and put back together enough times without this. I can handle it, no matter what it is - waterboarding or something else, I can handle it. Let me do this, Jason. I can do this.”

 

I tried my best not to see this as history repeating itself, but I couldn’t help seeing my own naivety in Gail’s eyes and feel all of Bruce’s tiredness in my bones. I won’t make a Jason Todd out of her. I won’t leave her behind. I won’t let her do this for me, the way I leapt into the thick of it to make Bruce proud. Something in my shoulder cracked as I slammed my fist into the board below me, growling over at her, “This isn’t a request, Gail! You think you can handle it, of course you do, that’s because you think you’re invincible and you’re wrong.” Tough love, sunshine. Please know that. “We are not gonna fight over who gets waterboarded first, y’know why? Because I’m going first and that’s final.”

 

There was a crackling noise coming from the speaker set into the ceiling that I’d originally misjudged as a smoke detector. And then a voice I knew immediately. “ _ I am so glad you’ve said that, Hood.” _

 

The door to our left swung away, and a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit I didn’t recognize from my previous torture sessions strolled on in, carrying only a square foot section of brown cloth. I wasn’t thrashing. I wasn’t about to protest what was going to happen to me because I knew from experience it didn’t stop it from happening. Nothing was going to change the fact that in mere seconds, I was going to be tortured.

 

Bruce’s letter came back to me, like a swan song. _ Men like us have the most difficult time accepting help from others because we believe in enduring great pain so the innocent never have to. _

 

My darling Gail, bless her, kept on fighting anyway. She was kicking her legs as much as she could in her bindings, seething at the man, “Don’t you dare touch him! If you put your hands on him, I’m gonna-”

 

“-What? What’s a runt like you gonna do tied up like that?” The man said with considerable amusement, which only made Abigail’s nostrils flare out and he knelt between us, shielding her from my view. I was thankful for that, even if he hadn’t meant to do it.

 

She wouldn’t see the panic on my face as he spread out the cloth, pressed it against my face. The light blotted out, and I felt the filtered air hold the tinge of old mothballs like he had dragged it along a basement floor. I tried to breathe, but not take a full lungful of air. It was easier to hold air at half-capacity than when your lungs threaten to burst. And then the water came, seeping through the cloth and up my nose. I knew what this felt like, and the seeping was not just coming through the cloth - something else, something darker was seeping into my head from the inside out.

 

I let go of the air despite what I’d learned to do to get through it, and I regretted that Abigail could see my feet twitching and thrashing under the bindings. A scream was racing up my mouth, fighting water as it garbled its way out. So when the laughing came inside my head, his ugly and vile laughter, I didn’t panic. Instead of running away from it like I always did, like a coward, I ran towards it. Anywhere would be better than here. I shut my brain off, and unlearned pain for a little while. Or at least, I tried to. It was kinder than here, where Gail could see and hear me.

 

My screams were anonymous in Arkham, but let me tell you something about hearing distant screams in silence when you’re in captivity in a mental hospital on an island no one wants to go to. While Arkham was on its last leg while I was there, trapped in a room with my own blood smeared on every wall, if someone had heard my screams - and I  _ knew  _ people did, nobody was going to come running. My only streak of vanity came when I thought about anyone seeing me broken like that. I wasn’t him, the boy torn apart by the criminally insane and infected to become one himself. I’m not a snivelling coward anymore begging for no more pain, begging for death and willing to sell out my family to have it.

 

Because when you’re in a creepy-ass hospital and you hear a scream, you didn’t go to investigate. You walked the other way because there’s Batman for that. And that’s what made being waterboarded in front of Gail even worse. Even as I gripped the board so hard my nails splintered under the pressure, even as I thrashed so hard my wrists were raw and my elbows chafed, even as my sinus and lungs burned under the streams, and even as Gail cried and screamed for him to stop doing this to me, nobody was coming. Batman was dead, as far as anybody in GCPD was willing to believe. Nobody was coming to get us with a war on the horizon in Gotham. There was nobody telling this man to stop.

 

Which was why it astounded me, barely four minutes in, when he did stop. The cloth came off my face, the light blinding me as the stream exited the way it came - from my mouth and my nose, onto the floor when I turned my head away from Gail. I coughed, I sputtered and spat onto the floor, the phlegm tinged red. The water wasn’t fully out of my ears when I heard Falcone’s voice, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying until I felt hands on my restraints, Gail’s voice protesting and arguing. She didn’t get it either. My aching hands were splayed, reaching as the restraints came off, and all I wanted to touch was her. Where was she? My throat choked on her name even as I was dragged to my feet, dragged from the room, dragged down the hall, dragged from wet-slicked cold into humid, blistering heat.

 

I could hear Gail immediately behind me, felt her eyes staring into the back of my head. I had no doubt that if anything further happened to me while they hauled me down this hall, she would go ballistic. My fiery Gail to my rescue, like always.

 

I was chucked at someone’s feet, because when I opened my eyes, I saw black shiny shoes. Gail didn’t join me, but she let out a terse, “Leave him alone!” when they threw me. I rolled onto my back, my arms giving out under me and the distant light, the room must have been so huge, was swirling like blood does around the shower drain. A face joined the light until it was still above me, sneering through the eyepatch. I heard crackling and popping like a fire, then the face spoke as it came to clarity.

 

“Enjoy your shower, Hood?” Falcone.

 

“Get the hell away from him, Carmine,” Gail barked nearby, breathing hard as she struggled against the men holding her arms behind her back because now they knew damn well what she could do with them. “You twisted son of a bitch.”

 

“Now, now, Wendy,” Falcone taunted, leaving my view and walking to the side, his feet trampling my fingers - standing on my hand as he said to her, ignoring how I tugged, “Mind your mouth. Before I stuff it.”

 

She didn’t like to be called that, dumbass. Her answer was simple, two words. “Drop dead.”

 

“You two first,” Falcone nattered back, snapping his fingers like that was supposed to mean something, like he was a Bond villain or some shit. I was being pulled to my feet again, the men carrying me shuffling only a short few feet away until I heard the great echo of a door creaking open. What the hell?

 

I was shoved inside, the lip of the room tripping me and I fell face-first onto iron grate. I knew the texture as my hands flattened against the floor, which was roughly six square feet. Cramped. Gail grunted as she was thrown in next to me, her shoes sliding against the ground as she scrambled to my side at once. Then I felt the whoosh of air as the door slammed shut behind us, sealing the freezing dread in my stomach that refused to sublime and melt against the heat of this room. There was a tiny window set into the door, the only light entering the space through it and Falcone’s good eye was peeking out at us through it, wide and unblinking. We heard his voice, “ _ Get comfortable. This is going to be your deathbed, and this room, your coffin. Meet your end. And take comfort knowing you’ll die together, at long last. _ ”

 

I managed to speak, finally having gotten my lungs cleared out from the waterboarding - which seemed awfully kind right about now. “I’m gonna tear your spine out through your ass, Falcone.”

 

A laugh from the other side of the glass, loud and with little genuine humor. “ _ Oh no, that’s going to be you…see, what is going to happen is that I am going to feed the furnace in this room - the heat from that furnace into the room the two of you are in, slowly over the period of an hour. The two of you will die from heat prostration, and if not - thermobaric charges will detonate in the grates below you, but of course, I do not care enough to see you die - only the pleasure in knowing that you will die. My men will scrape you off the floor to be delivered to City Hall in Gotham, where I will release my conditions to effectively take control of the city.” _

 

Gail’s hands tightened where they were on my shoulders, on my face. “Over our dead bodies.”

 

“ _ That’s the spirit.”  _ Falcone agreed, closing the window with a little slider and the room was plunged into darkness.

 

“W-Wait!” Gail shouted, her voice too loud and my hands clasped over my ears as she ran to the door, smacking her palms against it like thunder. Even if she sounded angry, I knew and heard the terror in her voice. “Let us out! We’ll do whatever you want, just get us out!”

 

I couldn’t tell you how I managed to do it, but I got to a wall, the metal warm to the touch, and pushed myself to my feet. I followed it in the direction of her voice, and held my hand out until my fingertips met her shoulder. I didn’t want to fight her, but she ended up pushing me away, banging on the door again. She was defiant and I knew she was afraid. You can say I’m jumping the gun and giving up hope too soon, but I’ve seen it all before. I knew what this was. I knew what this was going to do, and I knew what I wanted to do before I bit it.

 

“Don’t you give up on me,” She panted under her breath, patting my arm as she felt around on the wall. “W-We’re gonna get out of this, right? We’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna get out and we’re gonna get home.” She let out a low whine, a frustrated noise that made my heart ache in my chest with a dull pain. Her fingers were clasped over the hinge of the door, trying to pry and pick at them. “I’m gonna get you home, Jason. Just trust me, okay? Just trust me and we’re gonna go home.”

 

“I'm sorry,” I whispered into the dark, my hands capturing one of hers and she didn't fight me this time. She stood there, motionless as I moved my fingers up her arms until they held her jaw between my slippery palms. I pressed my forehead to hers, biting my lip. Her hair was matted to her forehead, drenched with sweat and feverishly hot. And I knew her face well enough to know where her mouth was. I didn't do it yet, though I wanted to. “I'm so goddamn sorry for doing this to you…”

 

“N-No, there’s a hinge right here,” Gail took my hands away from her face, in denial. Everybody’s in denial before it happens. She led my hands to the hinge. They’d bolted the door from the outside - if there was any chance, it was that hinge. “And there’s a breeze from the ceiling. I-I mean, it won’t save us, the vents won’t save us if we stay here…but it might be a way out. We can’t give up yet.”

 

“The vent’s probably minuscule, neither of us would fit. And nobody here’s gonna answer a cry for help,” I said. I hated being a realist about this, I wanted more than anything for there to be a way out for us. I wanted more than anything to get her home, to do this for her. So she can do something with that master’s degree, so she could live a better life than this. So she could be happy with someone better than me. But I refused to lie to her. “And I-I’m not strong enough to break that hinge.”

 

“W-What?” Gail wheezed, incredulous and shaken with disbelief. “You  _ can  _ do it, what do you mean you’re not strong enough?”

 

“I have been tortured, picked, prodded, flayed, and beaten within an inch of my life the past few days. I’m barely standing, honey…” I rasped, leaning against the wall and regretting it after a few seconds, the heat searing. Sweat rolled down my face, and my upper lip was soaked when I wiped it on my arm. “If, and I do mean if, Abigail, we had a chance, it would be to block the vents and wait for reinforcements. But again, that’s if any are coming.”

 

“Dick’ll come,” Gail insisted, “He has to. He will, okay? He will.”

 

“He’s gotta weigh the importance, Gail,” I sighed, taking her hands and trying to will her to believe me in the dark where she couldn’t see all the ways I hated to say it. “He knows what the mission requires, he knows the sacrifices he has to make. He isn’t stupid, he knows what’s at stake. There’s a war happening in Gotham right now. We’re collateral damage and he’ll make sure we’re hailed as heroes - even if I’m not one, you are.”

 

“Don’t you dare-” She started, but I interjected.

 

“-what, Abigail? Tell you the truth instead of sugarcoating the level of shit we’re in?” I shouted, my voice bouncing off the walls and ringing in my ears. I took her by the shoulders, hard enough to make her listen to me - hopefully. “You know that’s not how I work, and you deserve more than that. And I’m so sorry, I am so  _ goddamn sorry  _ that you’re here and that we’re both about to…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to say it. I wanted hope, but there wasn’t any here. “You know I refuse to bullshit you. I want,  _ so bad,  _ for there to be some wild chance that you and I can make it out of here. Or at least you.”

 

Gail put her hands on my arms at that, her nails digging in as she pressed her face to my chest. She sucked in a tense breath, “I am not leaving without you. I won’t do it.”

 

“Appreciate the gesture, sunshine,” I whispered, sinking down to a crouch and backing up until my shoulder blades hit the only thing that didn’t feel like a stove top: the door. I held one of her hands, tugging gently as I moved to sit on my ass. “Come here.”

 

“…Not yet,” She said, and I heard the rustling of clothes. The vibrations of her knees hitting the floor and her heavy breathing sounded worse with her asthma. “We need to block up the vents.”

 

Wordlessly, my hands found the waistband of my armored pants and hooked my thumbs under the material, dragging it down my long legs. I was thankful that I had boxers on underneath, and that the armor was still doing its job of keeping my joints manageable. I stuffed the material through the palm-sized holes with the grates, thankful that Gail was wearing more and was able to cover more surface area than I was. They’d taken my jacket before the waterboarding. We had nothing. No weapons, barely any clothes - just armor and each other. In a desperate moment, I wished I could see her face one more time. Just her face.

 

I looked in the direction I heard her gasps and sighs, and reached out in that direction, my hand touching her forearm. Holy hell, she was shaking. I felt her hair brush by my knuckles, and with a low, weak whine, she shuffled over to me. I gathered her in my arms, her legs over my lap and her head under my chin. Just like she’d asked. Just like she showed me what seemed like a lifetime ago. My arms wrapped around her, and my lips pressed to her hair without thinking. My head was spinning, the shadows dancing and whirling so fast it was starting to nauseate me. But it was her hands, her small hands with slender fingers pressing into my chest and holding me at my arms that kept me stable. She kept me right here, kept me in the moment instead of being thrown back into the real darkness.

 

“J-Jason?” Her voice, that steady, steady voice that I thought was so weird to find in such a hurricane of a city. “What’s it like? Y-You told me you’d…”

 

I knew what she meant. At first, I didn’t want to tell her. I wanted to die quietly, with her in my arms, but I knew she was scared and she deserved to know what was going to happen. She wanted to know. I found my voice under the guilt in my chest, crumpled and rough. “This isn’t like how I died the first time. The last time was slow, methodical…excruciating.” A small upturn to the corner of my mouth, and my voice finally flattened out. I certainly felt lighter this time around. “…This is…better. Still slow, but…better. I’m with you.”

 

“What did you think about before you died?” I felt her take my hand, sliding her fingers into my own and lacing them together like puzzle pieces.

 

“How it felt wrong, that I was all alone and about to die young. How I wanted to live. How I never got to…do things other people do when they grow up. Go to college, get married…grow old. What people usually think about, I guess,” My eyes were beginning to hurt, so I closed them. Wasn’t like I could see anything anyways. “…Why? What are you thinkin’ about?”

 

“…I still have hope, Jason,” Gail sighed, and I kept the time by tracking her breathing. Her sharp exhales and inhales. “It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking about…”

 

Of course she did. Of course, my sunshine girl still had hope. I wanted to tell her, right there and then, how I felt. I wasn’t sure the right words to use, I wasn’t sure if this was even the right time, but I knew that if this really was our last moments together, I had to say it. I didn’t want to die just yet. I wanted to do this. Before I was too dizzy or nauseated to do it. We were going to die in minutes. I needed to ask her.

 

When the words came out, they were a whisper with all my boyhood shyness and white-hot heartbeat. “Kiss me.”

 

“What?” A nugget of hope lodged in my heart as she didn’t seem repulsed when she said that, just confused.

 

“Kiss me, Abigail,” My free hand moved to hold her jaw, and my voice was so soft, “Please. Before we’re too far gone.”

 

“Stop it,” A tear that had rolled down her cheek hit my thumb, or maybe it was sweat. I knew she was scared. She was so terrified, and Lord knew I was too. Her hands were on my face, and I didn’t bother with my self-deprecating bullshit, I turned my face and kissed her palm. Gail whispered back, her voice breaking, “Stop it, you’re scaring me. We’re…we gotta get outta this. We’re gonna get out. Dammit, Jay, I’m gonna get you out because I care about you, so goddamn much and I…”

 

“We don’t know that, Gail…” Hot tears sprang to my eyes too, falling down my face. I didn’t want to scare her further, I didn’t mean to. I wished I’d never asked her. It was stupid. How could she want to? “I-I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…I’m sorry you’re stuck down here dying next to me.”

 

“I forgive you, Jay. I forgive you, for all of it,” She panted, her mouth against my neck along the scar that ran on the muscle there. She was sobbing. My strong girl, my precious Abigail, sobbing into my skin. And I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn’t too. Right into her hair. Loud and miserable, pitiful, but I was in love and dying with her in my arms. It was so shitty, it was such a shitty situation I’d dragged her in. She said, hiccuping, “I forgive you and I’m glad it’s you. I’m glad I’m with you, mystery man.” A pause. “Okay.”

 

“Okay, w-what?” I stammered, sweat getting into my eyes. I didn’t get an answer.

 

I felt her fingers move to my face, and if my heartbeat wasn’t echoing through the room, it was in my head. My skin was scorching, and she shifted in my arms, facing me instead of her back to my chest. Her nose bumped mine in the dark, and I smiled. If this is the last good thing I ever experience, I’m glad it’s kissing Abigail. My eyes slipped closed as I felt her breath on my mouth, her nose brushing my cheek. My hand slid up her body from her waist to hold her face, my thumb on her cheekbone.

 

There was an elongated moment where we stayed like that. On the precipice between best friends and more than that. Her body on my lap, draped across me like the only security blanket I would ever need. It felt just like the first time I got lost with her, back in her apartment a lifetime ago. My head swam, or maybe that was the heat but I didn’t care. My blood rushed through me, my hands both holding and pulling her close and every line of her against me. I could taste her breath, and with all of the slamming my heart was doing against my ribcage, it stopped when I felt her top lip gently press against mine. Her name sighed from my mouth.

 

I didn’t believe in divine intervention anymore. Not since Arkham, but as the vents echoed like something was knocking down the shaft, my eyes opened and I turned my face away, she did too. Something was coming down the shaft, and our kiss was forgotten by both of us. Just in case it was a bomb, I shifted Gail to the side and quickly pushed myself in front of her, her hand gripping mine hard. And then a brief note of silence before something heavy and metallic struck the grated floor. I waited for something to happen. A boom. Blistering heat to swallow us up in one gulp. But neither happened.

 

“S-Stay here.” I said, before crawling on all fours over to where I’d heard the impact. I felt around with my hands, hoping that it wasn’t touch-sensitive and would go off if I hit it.

 

“Find it?” Gail asked in the dark.

 

“Uh-uh…” And then my fingers did find something. “Wait…”

 

Wedged between the grates, an oddly shaped metal slab of some sort. I wrapped my hand around it, and with a hard pull, it came loose. I held it in my hands, unable to see but as I ran my fingers around the longer end, I felt a serial number engraved into the metal. And then I felt a trigger in the corner. A gun.

 

“What the hell?”

 


	49. Dead End Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Broken bottles under children's feet
> 
> Bodies strewn across the dead end street
> 
> But I won't heed the battle call
> 
> It puts my back up
> 
> Puts my back up against the wall”
> 
> \- U2, “Sunday Bloody Sunday”
> 
> ……………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

“Thirty days hath September…”

As they were dragging him, Gabriel Winters began to feel the full extent of the notion that his days had been numbered and today’s number was zero. He was going to die, and he heard his executioner. He knew he was going to die, and he knew who was going to kill him.

 

The strength in his body had been sapped out of him after the gun went click in his hand. He still held the piece of deadly steel as if it might explode if he let go. Many had tried to pry it from him, but he had fought them off. He mumbled her name, over and over. Not his ex-wife’s, as he often did when he felt overwhelmed or guilty, but his daughter’s. Her birth name, the one he smiled at on the calendar. He could still smell the ash in the air, the tangy smell of hot metal coming off Falcone’s mechanical sleeve. He knew the storm in her eyes; he had tried to tame it, tried to stave it off after her mother had died. He knew where it came from.

 

“April,  _ June _ …and November.”

 

Gabriel was thrown into a chamber that appeared a study. An ancient desk still coated with dust sat in the corner, and the rest of the room was mostly bookshelves, alcohol carts, and other luxuries, but Gabe was wholly insistent on ignoring all of that. His attention, from the moment he locked eyes with him, was on the man sitting cross-legged on the desk.

 

Gabriel had last seen him months ago, peeking out at him on a news feed showing the explosion of Wayne Manor, but he had only seen him from the back. Now, he was thankful it had just been the back, because Julian Day’s face was so gaunt that if Gabriel lived through this meeting, he knew he would have nightmares of it. He had scissors in his hand, and a flip calendar in the other, cutting out the days. The reputation of Belle Reeve hollowed out Day’s cheeks, the loose blue button-down he wore left open and Gabe could see every single one of his ribs.

 

“All the rest have thirty one…” Julian continued to say, and Gabriel almost thought he hadn’t noticed him walk in. That was before the man on the table fixed him with his icy, dead glare.

 

“J-Julian,” Gabriel stammered, frozen to the patch of hard floor he was standing on and so still, so statuesque he feared he would topple over. “Falcone, he…”

 

“I have always  _ hated  _ leap year,” Julian said, in so harsh a voice that Winters flinched like he wanted to fold in on himself and become nothing. “It was created to keep our calendars in line with the natural, the astronomical calendar…an extra day just created so we do not drift away from the right path…She died on a leap year, my sister.”

 

“I know,” Gabriel whispered, wishing nothing more than to close his eyes but Day commanded his attention with those scissors. The  _ snip-snip-snip _ slicing through the silence like the paper he held. He arranged the day squares into piles. He doubted that saying it would help his chances, but he tried his luck anyway. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Are you now?” Julian’s hands halted, and his eyes fell to the cold steel in the  _ Gazette  _ editor’s hands, the object Gabriel had forgotten completely. “That’s her gun. Isn’t it?” Gabe nodded frantically, and Julian returned to his work. “…The beauty of calendars is the infinite arbitrariness of the single days. You may do something extraordinary one day out of the year, and thus, only one day out of that year that matters. The other three hundred and sixty four don’t matter. Life goes on in the time in between. You may work on your next big break or a relationship you are trying to mend, or in my case, my next murder…Or you might just do  _ nothing _ .”

 

He held up the paper to the light, his face shaded for a moment from the elegant chandelier in Falcone’s study. “And then…one day out of the year, or perhaps two, rarely three…where something goes horribly wrong.” He pulled out one of the cut up days from the calendar, a spot of light hitting the tattoos that wound his head. “And it becomes the worst day of your life. I cannot mourn my sister properly every year, because I have to  _ wait four blasted years _ for the anniversary of her death. She was my sister, Gabriel. The best person I ever knew…the few times, the very few times I tried to make more better days for myself - she was the person I aspired to do it for. But that was changed…it was corrupted when you stood by, and did nothing while the man that had you on a leash killed your wife, my sister…”

 

Gabriel averted his eyes, to his shoes. Julian’s face twisted in his peripheral vision. The sunken-in eyes looked darker, but his voice grew quieter, Gabe straining to hear him. “…Shame on you, Gabriel Winters. Shame on you. I have not killed in some time…I am too often in Belle Reeve when the societal norms shift and allow me to kill-”

 

“-Why me?” Gabriel interjected, surprising himself and as Julian focused his eyes on him, he quickly added, “Why not Falcone? He’s the one who killed June, not me. I have hated F-”

 

“-Do not finish that sentence,” Julian leapt from the table so fast, Gabriel startled backwards and landed flat on his back. The gun clattered to the ground beside him, and he scrambled away from Day, his shoulder blades meeting the back of an armchair. Julian growled down at him, “Or I will cut your throat out. I was in irons when Juniper was killed, I couldn’t do anything from where I was - but you had every opportunity to kill him, to do something to avenge the woman we held dear and you did  _ nothing _ . You wasted your chances for fame, for fortune, for position. I couldn’t do anything. I was not told until  _ months later _ that my own flesh and blood, the only family that didn’t despise me, was dead. And when I did find out and I was free I tried, believe me. I tried to kill Carmine Falcone, but he told me that my dear sister’s daughter was still alive. And it all made terrible levels of sense. Why she never spoke to me for eleven years, why she kept me away, why she never visited. He held it against me. I had no reason not to kill him. It was the Ides of March, reserved for enemies and traitors, and I could not do it.”

 

“…June told me you killed your own parents,” Gabriel murmured, pushing himself to a sitting position against the armchair - too scared that Julian would make good on his word to slice his jugular. “You killed your own parents but yet showed remorse to June’s killer because he told you about Wednesday?”

 

“There’s a difference, slime,” Julian said, with a frankness and a bored raised eyebrow. “My parents treated me like an outcast, like a subhuman, from the moment I was born. My mother regarded my birthday as simply another day out of the calendar with which she hated me, and my father left me out of the equation altogether when asked how many children he had. ‘One,’ he would say, meaning my perfect sister. And she was perfect, so kind to me even and especially when I did not deserve it. She was never lenient with me, she told me what I was doing was wrong. I never hated her, but I loathed my parents…so when I heard that June’s daughter was alive, I wanted nothing more than to kill you…and Falcone knew that. We have never spoken, Wednesday and I, but after I saw what you nearly did today…I believe she hates you just as much as I do.”

 

With that conviction held as tightly in his hands as the scissors, the Calendar Man walked towards Gabriel.

 

The guards outside did not hear the struggle, only the sharp shouts cut off abruptly and without looking at each other, both men stiffened. Soft gurgling from inside, and in mere moments after that, Julian Day emerged from the room between them. The guards ignored him in sheer paranoia that he may turn his scissors upon them next, and saw the red on Julian’s face from the corners of their eyes. But as he walked away and rounded the corner, the blood footprints were all he left behind. Day had always amused himself by imagining he was walking in slow motion, that he was moving so slowly that it took exactly a week to cross from the end of the west wing to the far end of the east wing. But he was not amused now, and ousted these old thoughts from his mind, the high of a fresh kill drenched on him like his brother-in-law’s blood.

 

He left through the service door of the kitchens, walking out into the sunshine and the woods. He had his sister’s gun in his hand, familiar as holding her fingers in his like when they were children. He remembered being afraid of birds because their internal clocks told them that the cold was when you moved to warmer climates, that their winters must be all wrong inside. He remembered how his sister had laughed as this foolishness, but held his hand anyway. He walked along the edge of the building, just needing a walk. In the summer heat, the Calendar Man is cold inside. He was the bird when Juniper died, and after finally getting revenge, he was the bird again. His winters were all wrong, but it was a Wednesday today, and for that he was grateful. He stopped. Dead in his tracks, Julian Day stopped walking. He held the gun in his hands, his fingers splayed under it like he was cradling a baby bird or a hurt bird or a dead bird. He figured this must be the back of the Falcone manor, as there was a blemish in the brick. There was a hole like a vent, poking out from the wall with a pried apart grate. He had no use for a gun. He never used guns to kill. It was quick, sloppy. There was something clean and smart about the precise edge of a knife, he had always thought. Something religious in the baptizing of the dead body in its own blood that kept it warm.

 

He had no use for a gun. He stepped to the side, and pushed the gun into the grate, watching the darkness of the hole swallow up the steel.

 

………………………………………………………………………………

 

“Jason, this is my mother’s gun,” I felt Abigail’s fingers running over mine, over the metal in my hands. “This engraving…” She gently ran my fingertips over the engraving under the barrel of the gun. She read it aloud, and I was impressed that she knew how to pronounce the Latin, “ _ Roma invicta _ …”

 

“’Unconquerable Rome’,” I translated, and it was more than just memory, an old trip with Bruce came to me. “It was…the inscription on the statue of Rome…”

 

“My mom always said Gotham was unconquerable, too,” Gail panted, and I felt her fast breaths on my neck from where she knelt close to me. I leaned against her, almost falling into her shoulder. I had to brace my hand against the scorching floor to keep myself tall. She tapped my arm, and considering what we were about to do before the gun was dropped into our laps, I erupted in goosebumps at her touch. “Jason…this thing’s loaded.”

 

“W-What?” I just wanted her to say it again, so I could be sure. So that I could be sure we were saved before I dared to hope. My hands scrambled for that gun, the way an addict does for his needle. I heard her slippery hands cock it before she handed it to me.

 

I patted her knee, asking her to stay put. With her thin hands on my back and my hips, I waded through the musty, hot air to stand. I gripped the gun, wiping my palms on my boxers soaked with sweat as if that would help. I felt around the door until my fingers met the hinge, the only weak point in the room. I pressed the end of the gun to that hinge, at an angle I knew would disable it entirely. She held her breath, and to be honest, so did I. This was our one chance out of here. I pulled the trigger, the loud bang rocking my eardrums to silent ringing, and I heard Gail’s surprised yelp. I leaned in, my head against the door as I blew on the hinge, tapping it with my fingers to see if it was cracked, broken, anything.

 

“Fuckin’…” I put the muzzle to the nearly busted hinge, firing until the clip ran out. Not enough, but it’s the start we needed. “Stand clear, Gail.”

 

I heard her shuffling as I backed up, my back almost touching the stove top wall and I gathered air in my lungs for one last attempt. I had no idea how long the room was, I didn’t get a good glimpse when I was thrown in. So as I ran, I braced my shoulder towards the door. When I impacted with it, I heard a crack in my socket and the door started to give. I held my arm, and I chewed my lip. Damn. I lifted my booted foot to drive my heel again and again, feeling some leeway in the metal at the expense of my thoroughly ruined ankle. Gail was getting to her feet, and her hand closed around my forearm. “Stop, stop…Use me, Jason.”

 

“W-What? I’m not-” I started to say, but she cut me off.

 

“-Shove it, we don’t have a lot of time. My back armor will protect me, I’m not getting hurt. You need to use me as a battering ram. You’re the strongest, and I’ve got the most armor. We’re not getting out of here unless we work together.” Dammit. Most of the time I loved when she’s right, but let it be known: I hated this idea.

 

“…Fine.” I grumbled, and I felt her climb me. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist with her feet hooking in the back. I couldn’t tell if she’d stumbled and her mouth brushed my cheek or if she had meant to kiss it, but either way, I smiled. One arm coiled at the small of her back and the other hand braced behind her neck, to keep her head safe. “Brace yourself.”

 

“Braced,” She said, and she grew rigid against me. I pushed off with my heel against the opposite wall, hearing the material sizzle before I ran as hard as I could towards the door, and I tucked her head into my shoulder. When her back hit the door, a heavy thud echoed through and then a groaning noise as the hinges finally broke. The door fell forwards, and we fell with it, the momentum taking us along for the ride. I landed on top of Gail, and we slid along the top of the door until we rolled off. We slowed to a stop on our sides, and I peeled myself away from her, blinking through the light from the furnace across the room. The place was empty.

 

“A-Are you all there?” I gasped, breathing in raspy gusts as I scrubbed my hand down my face and then rubbed at my eye.

 

Gail coughed into my shoulder before leaning back. She wheezed, her eyes watering with either relief or the heat - maybe both. “J-Jay, we’re out. We did it…We just need to…” Her lungs were heaving in her chest, trying to get the air she needed back in her lungs. “…the heat…Jay…”

 

“I know, honey, I know…” With a slowness that was as infuriating as it was discouraging, I got to my knees. I scooped her up into my arms, but her hands pressed against my chest.

 

“Wait, my mom’s g-g…guh…” She rasped, reaching away from me and towards the resting place Falcone had chosen for us to die. That terrible dark room. “I can’t leave it, stop…stop, go back!”

 

“I-It’s a gun, Gail…we need to go, come on…I need to cool us down…” I tried to drag her up into my chest, but she fought me at every inch, every step.

 

Gail finally kneed me in the gut, and I stumbled to the side, my forearms smacking the concrete floor. Through the pain that thunderclapped across my eyes, I saw her crawling like a scared child, hands and knees and elbows, desperate breathing as she disappeared into the dark room. I stood, leaning against a nearby tray filled with chemical supplies - it always smelled like cocaine, the brief times they would drag me from room to room for torture. Now I knew where the source was. I tried to get the words out to apologize to her, even as she reemerged with the shiny gun clutched in her hands as if the awful thing was a lifeline. She holstered the gun wordlessly, lifting my arm to drape around her shoulders as she helped me limp over to the elevator.

 

Gail mumbled something - a single word - over and over under her breath as I hobbled along, gritting my teeth until she had me inside the elevator. Tired and panting, I rested my head on her shoulder. She mashed a button, and I knew she'd been holding her breath when the thing finally moved. The word she was murmuring was ‘sorry.’ I huffed out a breath. I brushed my forehead and the tip of my nose against her cheek and jaw. She stopped, her shoulders relaxing as I exhaled against her smudged porcelain neck. 

 

Something caught my eye on the floor, something blue-tinted. Unmistakeable. Two black scorch marks about a foot apart, and my heart leapt. I turned to Gail, my dry mouth struggling to speak, “D-Dick..?”

 

“He's fine,” She said, her head bowed and her hair curtained me against her eyes. “I hope.”

 

If I wasn't injured, I might have gotten upset and demanded to know why Dick didn't take more backup, but it was pointless. I knew why. We just didn't have the numbers. We still don't, and if we don’t get there in time, we’ll have even less. I felt Gail teetering and squeezed her weakly under my arm, “Hey, I can't stand if my crutch dozes off, sunshine.” I held my hand to her face, my forehead to hers. “Come on, don't you leave me now...few more minutes and we can get to a freezer.”

 

“I know where one is…” She offered, a weak smile crossing her lips. “Y-Y’know what'd be great?” I gave her a questioning 'hmm’ in response. “Rocky road ice cream…”

 

I hummed in agreement, nodding against her and my mouth spread into a grin that split my chapped lips. “Neopolitan. With sprinkles on that shit.”

 

“Jason, you hate sprinkles,” She said, her nose scrunching up and the corner of her mouth curled like she wasn’t sure how much smile she wanted to give me. We were always like that; we were always so hesitant to betray how much we liked each other.

 

“What'd I say?” I put her face between my stinging hands, her arms coming around my waist to help me stay upright. Gail was so tired, it was written in every smudge of dirt and every bead of sweat slicked to her bangs, but even after everything, she managed a soundless giggle. That's my girl. “We nearly died today...we might still die tonight or tomorrow if we get to the party back home in enough time, and that’s a big if... I want some goddamn ice cream with you.”

 

“We can go to that…that ice cream place on the corner of Sheldon Park…” She breathed, her eyes so heavy and her lashes fluttered. I needed to get us somewhere cooler…our body temperatures…something black slipped over my eyes, and then hands on my face, my scarred shoulders against the metal of the elevator. Her voice, shaky and insistent in my ear. “Jay, hold on, okay? You need to hold on…”

 

I focused on my feet, keeping them moving. My eyes were too heavy to open. I let her be my compass, pointing me in the right direction while I just continued to walk. I felt my boots scrape over hard wood for thirty paces, the linoleum, then tile. She helped me lean against what was probably a counter, and then I heard the sliding open of a freezer door, tongues of chilled air licking the heat from my skin. I breathed in lungfuls through my mouth in gasps, weakly shuffling towards the cold and almost falling, but Gail’s sure hands caught me. She led me over, smeared the hair out of my face so my skin was unhindered as the refrigerated breeze brought down my temperature. I breathed in, hoping that leading cold air into my chest would help fight off heat exhaustion from the inside out. 

 

“We need to go,” I whispered, the freezer burned meat slabs gathering dust in Falcone’s kitchen staring me in the face as my eyes finally opened. I blinked a few times, my head clearing and the true aching in my bones burst through to occupy the empty space. I groaned, straightening my back. I repeated to Gail, who pressed the ice bags from the next shelf up in the freezer to her flushed cheeks, “We need to get to Gotham, we need to help-”

 

“-I know, I know,” She said, coughing and combing her fingers through her knotted hair. “But how do you figure we're going to get there in time? Even if we hijacked a car, it's a three hour drive to Bludhaven at least, another hour to Gotham.”

 

I scrubbed a hand down my face, looking down at my injuries. My ankle was still a problem, even with the cryo-pressurized boots aiding me with standing and walking. Both arms hurt to move, and my back was a horror story on its own. Gail wasn't nearly as worse for wear, but she was well out of breath. Her pulse hammered in her throat. 

 

“...Something’s off,” She said suddenly, a hand on my elbow. “Wait...How did we not run into anyone on our way up here?”

 

My eyes widened, and confirming her suspicions in the worst of ways, we heard the heartbeat of terror - which, in this instance, sounded like a pair of boots that belonged to a man far more well-rested than me. Gail went still, and then ducked onto her haunches, yanking me down to crouch with her behind the island. She knew full well that her mom’s gun only had had one bullet left in the chamber, the one that broke us out, and it wouldn’t be of much help to us. But she held it in her hand like it was. She had unshakeable faith in it, and I didn’t need to think too hard to imagine what having that much faith in something, or anything, or anyone was like - I knew, once. 

 

On the bright side, the freezer skin bath was enough to let me get my bearings. The room wasn’t spinning anymore; the world stood still.  _ Focus on what you want to achieve, and it’ll happen.  _ Right now, I wanted to somehow lead Gail out of this mess with both of us in one piece. There was someone outside the room, I could hear them more clearly. I trained my ears harder, closing my eyes. 

 

Gait wide, which meant long legs but he was slightly dragging his feet. Sweeping noises, and I could hear his breathing, raspy and quick. Metallic singing as something with an edge rang through the air, and my eyes widened, holding Gail closer to me as he moved to right in front of the open kitchen door. It was a big kitchen, and we were towards the back, a long island in the middle of the room that spanned at least twenty feet. The island was split into sections, made of stainless steel and contained storage spaces under the top. If we played it smart, we could either slip past him or take him by surprise. I held my hand in her hair, keeping her head below the level of the counter. Her hands were over her mouth, disguising her breathing and her eyes searched the ambient space around us, looking for anything that could help. There was a slower shrill noise, a knife drawn from a wooden block on a counter by the door. Our hunter was armed. Out here, outside of the soundproof room I’d been stashed in for the past few days, thunder grumbled overhead. 

 

He knew we were here. His breath slowed, and his feet didn’t drag anymore as he stepped into the kitchen. But until he spoke, my first two guesses as to who this was were Calendar Man or another no-name Falcone thug. When I heard the voice, I realized I was more than wrong. I was  _ dead _ wrong. “Hello…? Is someone here that’s...not supposed to be? I know the smell of human blood...far too well to mistake it for fresh meat...Then again, that is what you are, isn’t it? Fresh meat.” 

 

My arm’s been bleeding, along with my face. I had to have bled on something. He’s been following me. Gail was searching my face, and I knew she was wondering why it was even paler. As part of her training, I taught her sign language so that we could communicate in stealthy silence on missions - should she ever go on one or something like this would happen. Who knew that the first time I’d be signing to her, the first time I needed to use this skill, it would be to warn her about one of the most dangerous serial killers ever to walk into Arkham? I hadn’t seen this guy since that night at Penguin’s...

 

The joints in my hands ached as I started to fingerspell the name. The first ‘Z’ had her grip on my arm tightening, and by the time I got to the last ‘Z’, her knuckles on her gun were white. The skies above the mansion were still groaning with displeasure at the situation. He kept talking. “Oh, this is exciting...It’s been so long since I’ve made the mark. So  _ long _ . I’ve dreamed of nothing else...it’s driven me insane…” 

 

I rose up in the crouch to the balls of my feet. My hands slid down the side of the metallic counter, feeling wheels under the lip. Gail moved closer, her feet shuffling to plant themselves under her and her hands curling over the bottom of the counter. She knew what I was thinking, and angled her toes towards the door. I pressed my hot cheek to the cold steel, sighing against the metal. My breath clouded the metal and as Gail braced, she did the same. Her face was speckled with grime and dirt, giving her more freckles and spots on her spattered skin. Her eyes were defiant, angry; they were full of what I needed from her right now. 

 

“Come out, come out…” Zsasz taunted as if we were school kids playing hide-and-seek, and I felt her tense as he dragged the edge of his knife along the metal countertop. An ear-splitting screech echoed; my teeth gritted hard in my mouth. But I ignored it, focusing on his feet. He was almost in position. “I'll find you. I'll hunt you down!”

 

Just when I was about to lift, he stopped maybe four inches before the ideal target. Gail was staring at me, lifting her eyebrows as if to ask,  _ What? Where the hell is he?  _ A bead of sweat ran down the side of my face, my heart jittering in my chest like caged birds and the muscles in my arms twitched. I’d eat a dishtowel for a handgun right about now. I could barely see him in the crack between the counters, a narrow strip of Zsasz brandishing a short knife. Shoulders hunched like he was a puppet hung by the nape of his neck. 

 

Zsasz took another cautious step forward; I needed one more. That last footfall came, the twitching in my arms stopped and we heaved the edge of the counter up onto him, before I shoved Gail in her side to run. Zsasz was going ballistic under the counter, my hands struggling to keep a grip as I held it down. Mad swings with the knife that missed my forearms by inches, and when Gail threw a worried look back, hesitating, I shouted at her,  “Don’t look at me,  _ run! _ ” 

 

A squeak with her shoe turning on the spot, Gail raced out of the room and some part of me knew she was forcing herself to keep her head forward. I reached up, grabbing the pot racks bolted to the ceiling, and with the last shred of upper body strength I had left, hoisted my thick legs up and stomped on the side of the counter. Zsasz’s face only grew redder, belting wordless shouts as his anger blurred every thought in his head while he swung at me with the knife in his hand - more weakly this time. I let go of the racks, going after Abigail with more exertion than I could afford. I knew I wouldn’t outrun him, I just needed Gail to. 

 

With a sweep of my arm, I snatched an entire wooden block of kitchen knives as I went. 

 

Once I tore out into the mansion, the soles of my shoes were rubbing on fine carpet and I could catch Gail peeking out around the corner about fifty yards away down the long, long hall. Grey light poured in from the windows, streaking in strobes across my vision as I ran. I waved my hand forward, urging her to go, to run; instead, she started towards me at full-tilt, pointing behind me. I halted dead in my tracks, catching a knife Zsasz had sent my way with the wooden block before I yanked it out and flung the blade back in turn. Zsasz sidestepped it, continuing to make a beeline for us. I tossed the block to Gail with a grunt, keeping a knife before I spun on my heel and met the maniac halfway. 

 

Here’s the thing most people forget about Zsasz apart from the human tally marks he carves into his skin: the dude’s fast. Any other day, I’d be too, but right now, my best shot was my strength and even that’s in short supply. He only had one visible knife, held point-out in his left hand - and when we finally collided, I took the wrist of that hand in mine. Here’s the thing most people forget about me: I’m good with knives. I was holding mine in a guard position, the edge against my forearm as I tried to hold it to his throat, his free hand stopping me. 

 

From that initial clinch, it was pure reaction and chess blended to a jagged mess of sharp edges. I headbutted him, he kneed me. I scraped the edge of my knife across his shoulder as if finishing the tally to a group of four marks, he reopened the scar on my neck. At some point, he seized up another knife from his boot and he fought dirty, nearly biting my hands. He fought like a hungry animal, all instinct and irretrievable. Gail was hurling knives at Zsasz where she could, missing by inches and the one that hit him was buried deep in his forearm, blood trickling down to his hands. Our grappling grew slipperier as the seconds turned to minutes, and to avoid having my fingers chomped off, I dropped my knife. Once he showed fatigue - a wheezed exhale, I took one wrist, kicked at the other as he tried to stab. It surprised him, the knife left his bloody hand, but he didn’t seem broken up about it - he kicked me in my ribs, hard enough to wind me in my battered state.  

 

He kicked me again, his long leg rearing up between us and his bare foot striking me in the chest. My balance shattered, my heart throbbing as my lower back hit the edge of a seat as I fell flat on my ass. I expected Zsasz to come charging, to come for me and finish me off, and he tried, but he stopped when something silver whizzed through the air in front of him, sticking into the wall. I heard footsteps and then as Zsasz turned, Gail’s boot planted itself in his gut to shove him against the wall. She retrieved her knife and parried with him, keeping his arms from getting around her and grappling. I pushed myself to my feet shaking, stumbling, but urgent to stand. I needed to get my ass off the ground, I needed- My eyes caught Zsasz nailing Gail in the jaw with his fist, knocking her back and every thought swirling in my head was drained out, like someone pulled the plug. My restraint from killing this parasite went with them. 

 

As he almost drunkenly lunged for Gail, I caught him midway. Jamming my shoulder into his side, I tackled him to the floor and quickly flipped him onto his stomach. I held him down with a stiff knee between his shoulder blades. I felt her eyes on me, boring a hot hole into the back of my head as I jabbed my fist into the back of Zsasz’s. I braced a hand on the back of his bald head, shrugging off a cringe at the clamminess of his skin. I tightened my fist till my nails bit my palm, and punched him at the base of his neck, again and again. I grunted curses under my breath, red outlining my vision, my hands hot and my teeth gritted in my mouth. A crack sounded under my fist, and the struggling from the serial killer beneath me ceased, his body growing slack. But I didn’t notice it right away. I was getting my point across to his left foot that was twitching. 

 

My knuckles were slick with his blood, my own rushing in my ears and my head, nervous hummingbirds throbbing in my gums and my fists. I rushed to my feet, ignoring the pain in my body when it protested. I braced my one hand on the wall and stomped his head into the floor once, twice, three times until Gail finally shoved me back. She wrapped her arms around me, leading me away from the newest addition to my ever-expanding body count; I thought it was almost poetic, one mass murderer killing for justice killing another who kills for sick, sadistic pleasure. 

 

She said something, talking to me, but I kept staring at Zsasz. Like a radio turning to a clear station, what she was saying came to me in halves, “...-might be a car in the garage, come on. It’s a long shot, Falcone never kept too many cars, but there might be one left if we’re lucky. Jason, come  _ on _ .” She tugged at my arm, harder. She knew she had to get me away or I’d start the cycle all over of killing him, even when a part of me knew he was already dead. “Come on, Jason. Move it!” 

 

“I-I’m coming…” I said, before she obstructed my view with herself. Her stormy eyes reached out and held my attention hostage, her stare told me that I needed to get out. I’d trained her to do this. I’d told her what happened when I was tortured, I’d told her how to take me out of the red state where I wanted to kill everything that moved. I’d told her how fast to run when that failed. 

 

But it wasn’t her that broke me out. The noise of turbines, the low whirring that crescendoed from a whisper to a roar that straightened my spine - the one I heard in my dreams sometimes. Gail on my heels, I staggered as fast as I could outside. Zsasz, forgotten. The mansion, forgotten. The awful place downstairs that nearly killed us, forgotten. I didn’t care. 

 

The warmth of sunshine on my skin, grass under my feet had me gasping, my eyes wide as it hovered in over the trees. 

 

“The Batwing…” Gail sighed beside me, before she went ballistic with whoops and cries. She shook my hand off jumping, and laughter bubbled up my throat, my chapped lips spread in a wide grin. I lifted a hand to shield my eyes, my heart thumping in my chest and my hair fluttered as the Batwing blocked out the sun above us. The craft lowered into the small yard in front of the mansion, the whirring almost deafening us. 

 

The Batwing shifted until the back faced us, and the exit runner was already coming down before the craft touched the ground. Someone walked out, and the smile faded from my face. Gail left me behind, running full-tilt to nearly tackle this person in her hug. I locked eyes with him over her shoulder. My eyes looked and yearned as they had not done in years. 

His eyes, wrinkled at the outer corners and just as kind as I remembered, stared at me as if he’d never been so awful or so happy at the same time. Gail stepped aside, and traded glances between us, beaming. His gaze fell to my chest, my arms, the scars. A hand that had healed so many of the oldest scars on me rose to cover his mouth. And then he rushed over to me, tugging me by an arm into him and shattering the frozen water in my veins. “Oh, Master Jason.” 

 

He held me so tight; I always forgot how strong he was. I wrapped my arms around him too, hating how I had grown taller while we were apart. My eyes burned and I buried them into his shoulder, my own shaking. “A-Alfred, I-I...” I hiccuped, and it all came out in a rush, low only for us to hear. The voice I used to tell him about something valuable I’d broken that I didn’t want the old man to know. “...Alfred, I’m sorry.” 

 

“And just what on  _ earth _ are you apologizing for?” Alfred tightened his grip behind my neck and the torture was worth it. Every piece of torture was worth it for this with him. He stroked my hair, soothing me as he would when I was a kid after a nightmare. One of many. I opened my eyes, looking down at my bloody hands at Alfred’s back. 

 

“Everything.” 

 

Alfred drew back, his fingers curling under my jaw and holding my face between his palms. If the feeling of entering your home, to be greeted by warmth and a hot meal could be contained, the result would be Alfred Pennyworth. The security that washed over me came from his knowing smile, the warmth in my chest from his eyes. “You do not owe me an apology for anything…And there isn’t time for one.” He took my arm, winding it over his shoulders as Gail took my other side. Alfred continued as they helped me up the ramp, “I can put the Batwing on autopilot on our way there, I’ve got medical supplies and more gear inside.” 

 

Alfred let me go once we were inside, moving to close the hatch and set an autopilot flight path for home. Gail lowered me into a seat, then jogged to the metallic cabinets to the rear of the plane for the supplies. The world didn’t spin, but my legs and my whole upper body burned like the air was salt rubbed into the wounds. I felt her hair brush my bare shoulder as Gail came back, setting a box in my lap for me to hold as she tore into an antibiotic ointment packet. 

 

“I’ll call Miss Gordon,” Alfred announced, holding in a button in the cockpit before the call transferred to speaker. He returned to us, checking over Gail before readying bandages for the collarbone wound she’d gotten during our attempted escape. 

 

“ _ Alfred, are you alright? Did you find them?”  _

 

…………………………….

 

Barbara held her breath for moments that protracted in her mind to hours. The clocktower was empty in the Oracle’s main wing, every able-bodied crime fighter floors down in the armory preparing for what everyone knew would be the fight of their lives. She could feel it; she could feel the gravity of Gotham, tightening its grip as it braced the concrete to be blown apart. She waited for her question to be answered, praying it would be. And when it was, the smile was involuntary. 

 

“ _ Well Babs, it’d be an awful shame if he hadn’t, wouldn’t it?”  _ His tone short, flat. He made it seem better than it was. 

 

“Jason, thank God!” The air whooshed out of her lungs and her eyes watering, her hand raising to cover them. “Is Gail with you?” 

 

“ _ Right here, Barbara.”  _ Earnest. Hopeful. 

 

As cool as he ever was. “ _ They’re right here, safe and sound, Miss Gordon. We’re en route to Gotham, on the double.”  _

 

“That’s the good news we needed, guys,” Barbara said, and she heard footsteps behind her, eager and light. She knew who it was, and she turned in her seat. “Dick, Alfred got them - both of them.” 

 

Nightwing rounded the corner into the room beaming, his suit thicker with the new armor his brother had forged and more titanium plating borrowed from the Bat’s last night. And he rested his hands on Barbara’s shoulders, laughing with far more light in his eyes that had been when he returned to the clocktower empty-handed and missing one of his comrades. “Get home as fast as you can, we’ll need all the help we can get!” 

 

“ _ Will do, Master Richard. Pennyworth, out.”  _ The line ended, and a map showing their flight path. Estimated time of arrival: ten minutes. 

 

Barbara reached for his hand on her shoulder, and his thumb pushed into her knuckles, holding her fingers there. Dick’s heart thrummed in his chest like a bird flitting in a cage, his eyes averted down as her hand left his to return to the keyboard. She had been busy fixing a plan of attack, the maps of town hall and the GCPD littered with ‘x’s and ‘o’s in various arrangements. 

 

But Dick wasn’t looking at the plans. His crystal blue eyes were on her. The ticking of the clock on her wall grew louder and louder, along with the clicking of her polish-chipped nails on the keyboards. He memorized the exact copper shade of her hair. The color of sunrays pushing through white curtains when the light hits her head. He was maskless, facade-less. The slope of her neck from where the roots of her hair ended to the broadness of her shoulders, leftover from her Batgirl years. 

 

Eventually, he removed his hands and walked backwards a few paces, before going to leave the room. Her voice stopped him. “Dick…?”

His fingers curled inwards at his sides, and he bit his lower lip, eyes screwed shut. “...This could be the last fight. For me, for Jason, for Tim...any of us, at any time.” 

 

“I know…” Barbara said, her voice soft and gentle. “You know how badly I want to be out there with you…” 

 

Dick’s eyes opened, turning and walking back to her. He met her gaze, his blue eyes shining as he took her face between his hands. “That’s not the point.” 

 

Dick bent, his heart leaping to his throat as he pressed his mouth to hers and drank her breath in like he was suffocating. Barbara’s eyes closed, her hands jerking with the sudden distraction before she shifted herself in her chair. She tugged him down by the plates in his armor, until she found his collar. She kissed him back, feeling like the time on the clock was flying the wrong way and they were younger. Before he had outgrown the shadow he had been Robin in, and she had been forced to hang up her cape altogether. 

 

How she wished she could be standing, how she wished she could wrap her arms around him fully and he wouldn’t have to strain himself to be close to her. How she wished she didn’t have to drag him down to be with him. One of his hands fell lower on her waist and she felt herself being half-lifted from her wheelchair. She gasped into his mouth, Dick humming at this and kissing her harder. He knew. He knew that of all the things Barbara was, fragile was not one of them. 

 

Barbara was in delirium, her pulse a frantic race against reality. She knew he would let her go soon, but she didn’t want him to. Kissing Dick Grayson was like kissing the sun. Each curve of his lips left a sunburn, each touch left a scorching mark, and each wave of his breath that fell down Barbara’s neck brought on a shiver. For him, kissing her was as close to divinity and safety as he would ever hope to be. She was his safety wire: the lifeline that kept him airborne. Some loves were indomitable, and theirs was one of those. Despite time or distance, even falling into another’s arms, Dick could no more keep Barbara out of his heart any more than his smile left her mind. 

 

As they knew they would, Barbara drew away from him first. Her eyelashes were wet, his hands full of need. He lowered her back into her chair, kissing her again before he straightened. She whispered, “Be careful.” 

 

Dick craned to give her a peck on her forehead, over the lines that creased when she was upset. “You too…” 

 

And with a swift gait, he was gone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	50. The Battle for Gotham, Part I

 

There’s a moment like a gasp and it got quiet in Gotham City. 

 

I knew what it was, and I knew how to prepare for it. There’d been a moment like this before Halloween, just before the first tanks went out and the first drones took off for the night-long occupation. I had told Deathstroke that it was ironic; that the quietest times come before the loudest. He’d laughed it off, said something about cold feet, but I didn’t know then what I do now. That these were the minutes that decide wars. Just when the light left the sky and the night began. 

 

Returning to the Clocktower was just bizarre. The place was empty, save for Barbara who practically threw herself out of her wheelchair when I came through the door. She hugged me so hard the ribs didn’t hurt, and I was almost surprised when she embraced Gail with as much enthusiasm. She whispered something to Gail, saw the other girl squeeze just that bit more with a smile. Once they pulled away, Babs told me that Dick and the rest had gone ahead of us. She told me that as soon as we was suited up, I could take my Cobra tank to City Hall. That’s where Falcone was waiting, she said. He was waiting for all the light to leave the sky.

 

Alfred had done his best to fix me as best he could. The ankle was reinforced and when he disappeared to the stash of supplies Barbara had in her storage, I wanted to tell him not to waste painkillers on me before the battle even started. He and Gail had mended my back, smearing something along my spine that chilled the skin while Alfred fed me homemade protein bars. The same ones he always refused to let me leave the cave without when I was Robin, and I couldn’t have been happier to eat them. He tried to get Gail to eat them too, but she wouldn’t have it when I’d been starved longer. 

 

Soon enough, I was in the armory gearing up. There was a package on the workbench, my name in Dick’s handwriting across the top. He did this for me. My big brother did this for me because he knew he wouldn’t be here when I got back. He knew I’d come back. There was a small note attached, his left-handed handwriting rushed and loopy, telling me that he was ready when I was. Alfred helped me get my arms in the right holes, helped me cinch up the armor so that it was a second skin. The plates conformed to the arms, the chest, the legs, up my back and around my neck like a noose. These suits were always tight in the neck. 

 

There were a few moments, a few precious spare moments that I knew I shouldn’t use up lightly, but I was good and well-armed. Alfred needed to refuel the tank anyway. 

 

The armory room in the Clocktower had this narrow strip of stained glass windows along the top of the far wall. The last light of the day was cast in blues and greens onto the floor, a single crimson piece in the center of the mosaic. My helmet was on the table in front of me, and my hand hesitated to reach for it. Not just yet, just wait. 

 

Of all the things I wasn't sure about, and there were quite a few, the most uncertainty came with who'd be dead when the dust settled. And as atheistic as I pretended to be, I knew it's foolish not to exhaust all of my options. My gaze drew up to the crimson glass inset into the window, and I cleared my throat. 

 

“Uh, okay. It's me...I know the last time I did this, I was asking for some luck.” Or a miracle in general. My shaking fingers raked through my hair as I rambled on. “Because...when you try to kill Batman, you need all of that you can get...And you probably thought, ‘Yeah, like hell am I giving you that, you maniac’, and that's fine. You were right not to…”

 

Imagine that. God being right not to give me what I want. Not like I haven't asked Him a million times for shit. Then again, asking someone for death is a bit much to ask. “But I'm asking for something different this time. Y’see...I, uhm...I-I-I...I'm better now. Cleaner. I can do this, I'm on a better road, right, I'm…” 

 

Best be honest with the guy. I said in a flat voice, “I'm gonna kill a lot of people today, okay - I’ll be straight with you... But it's for something good.” 

 

The scariest part about this was not me dying. It wasn’t. I’ve died before, I nearly died mere hours ago, I wasn’t afraid of doing it again. A lump tightened my throat and broke my voice. “I know ends don't justify the means in your holy book, but  _ please _ ... _ Please, God,  _ don't let my family die today. I'm beggin’ you. I just found them again and...they’ve only just forgiven me for what I’ve done.”

 

I sucked in a shallow breath. “I know I'm just a real angry guy with a lot of guns and too much nerve and not enough patience and no faith in your justice, but…” I pushed my fist into the workbench. “Let this be the only time you listen to me. I've prayed to you before and I didn't get shit, but I'm...I need this. I really need this right now. You didn't give me death, you didn't give me better parents, you didn't give me  _ jack shit _ , but right here, right now-” 

 

I pointed a finger behind me, “I'm telling you that while I don't deserve saving, they do. And I'm not the kind of man that turns down a chance at negotiation if there is something in it for me...and I’m in love...and I can't hold a gun to your head, so…” 

 

I finally picked up the helmet, slid it onto my head. The tactical hood came down and I finished my prayer. “...If you don’t keep them safe and they die? If I fail today, big time, and Gotham falls. If they die and my city goes to hell, I’m going to blow my brains out. And then I’ll be coming for you.” 

 

…………………………………

 

When I reached the tank with Gail to find her already in the cockpit, I was surprised. She hated this thing. I half-expected her to go in the Batwing with Alfred, but no, she was here with me. She was in new armor, since her other suit was busted from when we broke out of the vault Falcone threw us to die. The cape and the cowl was gone, the entire suit painted black, but I recognized the bodice and forearm spikes of Barbara’s old suit. Under the hood, I smiled as she got out of the seat so I could sit in it. 

 

“She let me borrow it, I swear,” Gail muttered as she stood by me. 

 

“What makes you think I mind? Long as it fits and you don’t mind having a bat on your chest, I don’t care.” 

 

“Because she’s like your sister,” Gail said. I fired up the tank and the doors in front of us swung open. She held onto the back of my chair as we surged forward. “...And I’m just tagging along.” 

 

I tossed a sideways look at her, my stomach in knots. “What’re you talkin’ like that for? You’ve got as much stake as any of us in this. You hate Falcone. He killed your mom and ruined your relationship with your father. He’s the reason you have nightmares and he nearly killed us.” I set the tank course and let it drive itself, turning to her. “I...admit that if I had my way, you’d have nothing to do with this fight. You’d be on the next flight out, but...I know what it’s like to get secondhand justice, and wish it was you who got the job done. I’m not gonna keep that from you.” 

 

“I know you do,” Gail sighed. Her bangs hung in her eyes, the rest of her hair restrained back into her French braid. “I’m thinking about what’s going to happen. What could happen. We’ve dragged a lot of people into this fight... _ I’ve _ dragged a lot of people into this fight. Because I couldn’t-”    
  


“-this isn’t on you,” I insisted. “The League of Assassins revived Falcone. Had nothing to do with you. And everybody in this fight knows what they’re in for. Dick, Tim, and me have trained for this kind of fight. Trained by the best, and so were you, if I do say so myself.” 

 

That earned me a begrudging smile out of her, and she rolled her eyes, pushed my shoulder. “Jay, stop it. You know what I mean.” 

 

“I do, I’m just not gonna let you beat yourself up.” I took her hand, lacing our gloved fingers together. “...You didn’t let me. Well. You did at first, that's beside the point…” 

 

Gail gave my fingers a squeeze. “I know, but…” 

 

“No ‘but’s,” I stood from the chair, towering over her as I held her hand between us. “Do you remember what I promised you? On the gargoyle?” 

 

She frowned at me. “You promised that you’d never turn your back on me.” 

 

“And I don’t plan to.” 

 

A jolt shook the cockpit and I pressed my body into hers against the wall as the shockwave rippled through us. The tank pushed back at least fifty yards, and when I was sure it had ended, I sat back in the seat. I brought on the frontal display, showing City Hall and Gail gasped. 

 

“Holy hell…” 

 

The top of City Hall looked like it had been blown off, billowing clouds of smoke from the roof and I could see a small crowd on the steps, empty spaces where open combat happened. The Batwing soared ahead of us, shooting into the crowd. I jammed the gas pedal to the floor, the tank lurched forward and Gail held onto the back of my seat to stay upright before she disappeared behind me. I felt a short gust of air on the back of my neck. She was preparing to open the hatch up top for the minigun. A wicked grin smeared across my face. 

 

…………………………

 

In the back of his mouth, Dick had chewed on the possibility of being diplomatic about the Falcone-Assassins situation, but now as he dove in to help Tim fight off two sai-wielding ninjas, he knew that possibility would have been suicide. He pushed his escrima sticks together into a staff, jammed the electrified ends into every ninja he saw. 

 

What these warriors wore was startling to him. Black was their battle color, not gunmetal grey. Gunmetal grey was used for resurrection days, when someone was to be dunked in the Lazarus Pit and rejuvenated by the waters. He and Tim shared a look as Dick vaulted over Robin’s shoulders to drive his knee into an enemy nose. Tim had already noticed the colors, and he was unnerved by it too. Dick scanned the room of the massive hall, where a swarm of grey hoped to overwhelm their mustered reinforcements with their numbers. A green-eyed wraith flew by, and two beams of starbolts plowed into the horde. Dick drew back a step, and then somersaulted over the railing. He took a ninja in front of Catwoman by the back of the shoulder blades with both hands, and as his feet craned down, the momentum sent the warrior flying. 

 

“How are we doing?” He shouted to Catwoman as he grappled with a new opponent. 

 

Selina’s whip whisked through the air, and Dick resisted the flinch when it cracked over and over. “We’re doing alright, but they just keep coming! Where the hell is our backup?” 

 

The scream of the Batwing rung their ears from overhead, blacking out the light from the missing roof. A bang had every person in the room, even the ninjas, ducking as what Dick recognized as an armor pod released from the plane and slammed into the marble floor. He joined Robin’s whoop from across the room as they saw what it was. Sleek black metal that the strongest man on the planet forged in the heart of the sun, the dark curves at the shoulders that willpower made strong. It stood twice as tall as any warrior in the room, and moved swiftly, thanks to weeks of testing against the Speed Force. The circuitry came alive in red, and the voice that called out was that of one of the two toughest men Dick Grayson had ever known. “ _ About time I pulled this out of the closet.”  _

 

“Alfred!” Dick cried, fighting his way over to the butler who swatted a ninja to the side as if it were a fly. “I thought he got rid of that!” 

 

“ _ The Hellbat Armor is indestructible, sir. He could not destroy it if he tried. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”  _ The arm of the Hellbat arced to claw away a swarm of warrior surrounding Batwoman, who saluted as she moved onto other opponents. 

 

Nightwing’s ears rang loud as he heard the wheels of the tank.  _ Here he comes.  _ He sprinted and jumped high to catch Robin’s hand from the balcony, before their entire force was on the upper level and safely away from the ground floor. The Hellbat’s wings spread and rockets in the boots propelled Alfred up to the higher floor. 

 

The whole structure swayed back as the Cobra slammed into the wall, busting through the mortar as it ran over the stragglers from the previous wave of warriors. As soon as the wall was down, the minigun hatch came away and Nightwing caught the blonde head of Abigail grabbing the turret. She spun one-eighty and fired back into the streets, where black trucks full of guys hanging onto the sides sped towards them. Starfire zoomed past the opening and plowed into more. 

 

The sound of gunfire brought Nightwing back to his surroundings, and he whooped, the others joining him as he caught that cherry-red helmet diving into the fight like a summer pool party. He flipped over the railing to join his brother, caught a ninja in a senton and drove his face into the floor. “Jason!” 

……………………………..

 

Dick’s voice brought me away from the last few days of pain, made me grin in the grimness of a fight, and I whirled around. I fired my guns into the faces of a new wave of ninjas, fought my way to the dork with the black and blue leotard, and the minute his hand met my arm, he tugged me in tight. I wrapped an arm around him, squeezed a bullet into a mook behind him as I shouted over the gunfire and scanned City Hall for the ninja’s entry point, “The ninjas are coming in from the basement!” 

 

Dick let go of me, pushed a crackling end of his escrima stick into the clothed face of a ninja. “Probably using the underground and the sewers!” 

 

A shockwave that pulsed through the ground caught my attention, and my tactical hood found the source in a second, a big man twice my size on the ground floor. Falcone’s black and white flags, he wasn’t League. His biceps were as big around as my head, and he brandished a mace with both hands, the late morning  sun contorting the scar on his face with shadows. Gail was having too much fun using that machine gun the other direction to waste time swivelling it our way. And it’ll take me at least six bullets to plug this guy. Dick and I dodged in opposite directions as he swung the mace at us. I shot at him, the horns in the mace ricocheted the bullets away and his attention left Dick and fell solely to me. 

 

“Shit,” I rasped, holstered my guns and darted for the long tapestry banners that ran between the windows. If I can blind him, then Dick can take him out. He stopped for a second in chasing me, tried to search for Dick, but in an oh-so brilliant moment, I scooped up a piece of rubble. I spun on my heel, and tossed it right at his head. “Come get me, ya boob!” 

 

The rubble clocked him almost at the temple, and I didn’t have time to internally cringe over the use of the word ‘boob.’ He teetered, and I whistled loud. Dick burst from the crowd and tumbled to the man, but before he could strike, the guy shook his vision clear. He caught Dick in his arm, and flung him in one fluid motion at me. 

 

Nightwing’s back hit my chest, knocked me flat on my ass. I saw the Falcone thug charge, but something big and black plowed into him with a metal shoulder. The black thing picked up the man with one hand before it chucked the guy like a javelin through one of the high windows. Then it turned to me, and my hands were pushing Dick off my legs. 

 

“ _ Master Jason, I do hope you’re not pulling a gun on me,”  _ It was Alfred’s voice through the metal. 

 

I blinked, before I pointed a finger at the black giant, which I had just realized looked like a bat. The metal ears, the wings, the gauntlet spikes like the old man’s suit. Whatever it was, I wanted one. 

 

I didn’t have a chance to thank Alfred, because something behind him caught my eye. Falcone’s stark white suit, black metal sleeve turned redder as he ran to the back - in the opposite direction to the ninjas pouring out of the basement door. I moved without thinking, and broke into a run, Dick hot on my heels. 

 

I clotheslined a couple of men as I got closer to the door, and covered Dick’s slipping behind it with quick-draw firing into three more. I shut it behind me, and Dick rubbed the electrified end of the escrima stick along the metal of the door. Anyone who tried to open it was going to get the shit shocked out of them. 

 

During my time as Robin, Nightwing and I had teamed up many, many times while Batman was off on international assignments or missions with the big league. It was easier than throwing baseballs back and forth. The ninjas coming up the stairs were trained killers, raised from birth to serve the League of Assassins. Nightwing and I were raised from young ages to survive, and so we did. I saved him. He saved me. I suplexed a guy into the air so that Dick could drive his escrima stick into the midsection. Dick grabbed my hand and let me whip him into a swollen crowd of their forces. It was easy as breathing, even in the dim lights of the basement. In one corner, an earthen wall pushed away led to the underground tunnels that connected the major buildings of Gotham. Dick and I fought our way to that objective, leaving no one conscious. 

 

I had wanted to kill them, but I made a promise when Dick helped me rejoin the family. Unless it was necessary, I didn’t kill in front of him. He wouldn’t like it. He didn’t like it. 

 

We got into a massive cavern about a hundred yards down the tunnels, a hole in the top pouring in sunlight to the center of the stalagmite-littered floor. I thumbed the lights to my guns, and the LEDs came on, before I shined them into the dark ceiling of the cave. Like the cave I became a man in, they hung like bats between the pillars and clinging to the biggest stalactite was a green-eyed ninja with the lower half of her face covered. Dick seemed to shiver by my side at the sight. 

 

“Hello boys,” She said, and let go of the limestone, landing in a crouch. A long curved sword with Arabic inscribed into the hilt hung from her hip, and now I recognized her too. That sword was in GCPD evidence before I was captured by Falcone. 

 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who can come back from the dead,” I said, before I trained both guns on her. 

 

“I am an  _ al Ghul _ , Jason,” Talia sneered. She pulled down the cloth from her face, and her eyes glowed as she moved through the shadows in a circle around us. “Or did you forget the service rendered to you?” 

 

“The hell are you talking about?” Dick asked, his eyes on the other ninjas and he caught the smoldering arm of Falcone in the darkness. 

 

“You didn’t bring me back,” I seethed, “I broke out of Arkham with Deathstroke.” 

 

“Who do you think pushed Deathstroke to work with you? Made him susceptible to persuasion away from a previous contract? Made him see that if he wanted Batman dead, you were the man to ask?” Talia said, her lithe accent curled in my ears. “In essence, I did make your miraculous resurrection possible.” 

 

I bit the inside of my cheek. Deathstroke was not an easily persuaded man, I knew that, but it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility that she put me on his radar. I just didn’t like being easily manipulated. I didn’t like having my accomplishments attributed to other people - and believe me, I considered breaking out of Arkham a resume-builder. 

 

“And why do you want Batman dead?” Nightwing asked, his eyes on Talia which gave me a chance to survey the room. 

 

High ceilings, plenty of room to move, and no telling how many people in this place. And we basically locked ourselves down here. Good thing I brought extra ammo.

 

“In a choice between love and endless misery, he chose misery,” Talia sounded wistful, her grip tightened on her sword. “In a choice between me and his pointless mission, he chose the mission. He chose something else. He let me die. He let me…” 

 

“Is that it?” I asked, my eyes on her again. And they say you get wiser as you age. “Welcome to the fucking club. He’s gonna choose the mission because it’s bigger than any of us. He knew that. And you and me are too dumb to see it. He had to make that choice so that innocent people go home safely, even if we don’t. Even if we don’t deserve that.” 

 

“I’m gonna throw up if you two keep gabbing,” Falcone left the shadows, his metal arm nearly white with heat that radiated from him and made me sweat through my armor. “This is pathetic. Suck it up and fight.” 

 

Talia waved her sword and lifted it to just under Falcone’s chin. “Watch your mouth. I pulled you out of death, I can throw you back in.” 

 

“And waste an investment of time and money? Right.” Falcone’s getting cheeky. I squinted between them. Talia’s lost her grip on him, and I’ve lost my grip on my patience. “Let’s go.” 

 

Sparks flew as he swatted away her blade with his metal sleeve, and came at me. Dick’s escrima stick blocked his advance to me, and a swift kick to Carmine’s head had the mob boss focusing on him. My attentions turned to Talia. 

 

Every al Ghul I’d ever fought, which was all of two, were master swordsmen in a class all their own. Last time I tested my mettle against one, Ra’s almost took my head off. Talia was swifter than her father, but something in the way her eyes shone green and her shoulders tensed had me thinking there was difference in her now. Something was off. She didn’t love Bruce anymore. She didn’t have anyone. No Ra’s to save her. No Batman to bail me out. Just her and me. 

 

She whistled, and an assassin landed in the mineral dust next to her, presented his blade to her with his head bowed. She took it, and tossed the sword to me. I holstered my guns, cracked my knuckles as I gave the sword a few twirls. League steel was balanced perfectly, the blade sharp and lined with metals hard as diamonds. In a hundred years, they wouldn’t dull. 

 

“When was the last time you used a sword?” She asked me, stance firm with a hand behind her back as she pointed the tip of her sword to me. 

 

I tightened the sword in my left hand, and kept my free hand up as I bent my knees. “Nearly a year ago, kicking Slade’s ass.” 

 

A beat later, her sword thrusted for my neck and it was nonstop motion. Slashes parried in a clang of steel on steel, steps forward and steps back. Talia was a master, something I didn’t think anyone gave her credit for. I tried a series of forward slashes, and she whipped her sword around her head, deflecting every single one as I pushed forward, her hair fanning out with each spin. 

 

I used my gauntlets, caught her blade in my armor and attempted to cut at her back, but the way she moved was like a snake or liquid - she seemed to spirit herself away from my sword. My brows tugged together as I slashed at her again. The sword moved  _ through  _ her, clanged off the armor on my own hip, Talia entirely unharmed. Like she was made of smoke. 

 

“What’s the matter?” She asked, as I blocked an elbow with her free hand. “Not so good without your guns?” 

 

“The guns ain’t a replacement or a crutch for skill,” I jabbed at her side, which made contact. Part of me had to make sure she was real. I remembered her reaching in my head, her fingers poking around my brain until she extracted my memories of Joker. In her eyes, I could see that she remembered that too. “Magic’s cheating.” 

 

“Relative term, that.” 

 

I couldn’t tell what Dick was doing, I had to keep my eyes on Talia, but I figured as long as I heard the zapping noises of his escrima sticks, he was okay. He was in the fight. I clung to that feeling, and forced myself not to think about how Gail was doing upstairs. 

 

Talia grew tired of the casual swordplay fast. No idle chat, she just threw slash after slash, thrust after thrust at me, and I did what I could to retaliate. My best chance was to establish a pattern or find a hole in her game, but she was dynamic, I could barely keep up. I felt hot searing pain as her blade grazed my shoulder between the plates of my armor, but it cost her. I kicked her in the chest with all I had, and a harsh snapping sound echoed in the cavern. She recoiled, clutching her chest and gasping. 

 

She grunted, her sword wilder as I backed up on the steep incline in back of the cavern. Water among the mineral dust became sludge, and every lift of my boot made a squelching noise. I parried her sword, a smile curled in my lips. She slowed down, the chest wound restricted her lungs with every blow. Her energy was draining as I merely deflected her sword, didn’t bother to initiate attacks. Calls in Arabic from her men were only met with harsh replies on her part. I didn’t know Arabic, but the way they flinched cleared it up for me. This was one-on-one. Anyone who interfered ran the risk of eating her blade. 

 

Talia had more than enough fight in her and for once, I was on defense. She could tell I was toying with her, and attempted to appeal to my rage. “Who was that pretty girl that came to get you with your brother, Jason? I saw her in your memories.” 

I remained silent, and I knew what she was doing. I knew her play. I knew that I had to stay cool, but she noticed the little extra bit of force I put into clanging blades with her. I tried to stay steely and quiet.  

 

“I saw her through your eyes,” She said, following a thrust with an elbow to my head which I blocked and held with my free hand. “I know how you feel, not to have the person you want the most look at you the way you want them to. Even if you know it’s bad. Even if you know they don’t want you half as bad as you want them...if at all.” 

 

“Bruce didn’t want you because you brought fun into his life, and that’s frowned upon,” I said, and threw the defensive approach out the window. I shuffled through the sandy mud, slashed for her neck and her chest. Instead of blocking, which she didn’t have enough strength to do, she dodged and darted out of my way. 

 

“And she doesn’t want you because you’re a good-for-nothing, that’s literally  _ good for nothing _ ,” She caught my blade in the edge of hers, and I pushed against her, her breath fogged my tactical mask. “You’re a monster in Robin’s clothing. I know it. You know it. Batman knew it, and what are you willing to bet that’s why he didn’t come for you?” 

 

My heart flew up to my throat, and something in my brain short-circuited. I shoved back with my sword, and a short stalagmite tripped her. She rolled through the mud down the incline, sliding to a stop on the main floor. 

 

I forced the words out of my mind as I stalked up to her. She had sand over her face, caked in her hair and she was motionless. I reached her body, stood to the left of her, and kicked her onto her back. Her chest wasn’t moving. I squinted, and slowly moved to a crouch. My free hand clutched a fistful of her gear and her eyes flew open. Her shins whipped around and buckled my knees. She flipped the grip on her sword, and before I had a chance to blink, cracked the squirrel tail handle of the sword between the eyes of my helmet. A loud crack rang in my ears, vice pressure on my temples blurring my vision. I scrambled for the release on the helmet, fought to keep my eyes open as I blindly parried the flashes of light I knew came off her weapon. 

 

I yanked off the helmet, tapped the button under the lip of the chin reinforcement plates, and hurled it at her. She missed it by inches, and looked confused when she saw me duck behind a stalactite. I shouted to Dick, wherever he was, “Hit the deck!”

 

I heard the slap of his chest armor on the ground as I plugged my ears, the helmet self-destructed with a muffled boom that shook the ground and shuddered the air around me. When I gripped my sword again and whirled around the pillar, Talia was kneeling, trying to use her sword to pull herself to stand. I couldn't see Falcone, but Dick was fine, rubble in his hair as he sized up Talia's men. 

 

I kicked her sword away, and she staggered, her hair hanging over her lap. I reached under her jaw to grab her neck, forced her to stand. Her face was covered in mineral dust and blood from under her hairline. I growled lowly, “Whatever you're doing with my memories, it ends here…”

 

I slid the sword in my belt, and braced my hands around her neck, my fingers on her chin and at the back of her head. I slowly twisted until I felt resistance. “I'll give Bruce your regards.”

 

“Jason, stop-” I heard Dick say and my head turned, and I  _ took my eyes off Talia. _

 

I caught the glint of metal as it entered the light. At first, I thought it was a bat, because it soared through the air in an arc. But as it hit my face, barbs cutting my eyebrow and just under my right eye and ricocheting off my cheekbone, I recognized the sting of League shuriken. And the dizzying poison they tipped them with. 

 

Talia’s hands curled under mine, and seized my head. She drove her forehead into my nose, blood spurting on her skin. Dick’s legs flew into view, his feet nailing her injured chest as I swiped blood out of my face and desperately tried to see. Something small and cloaked in black was fighting Dick alongside Talia, moved with swiftness that suggested either skill or sorcery. My hand reached my sidearm, and I unloaded the clip at the cloaked figure about half Dick’s height. The thing could  _ move _ ; it surged towards me, dodged bullets like they were tennis balls and before I could react with a kick or an elbow, it climbed my back and chopped small hands at my throbbing temples. I felt Dick’s hands grab me, spin me around to seize the arms of the fuckin’ gremlin to throw it off. It landed on its feet like a cat, and darted to Talia.

 

Little devil turned to me, a pale circle peeked out from under a black hood stared at me with eyes that hesitated my trigger finger. Bruce’s ice blue eyes stared back, from a face no older than twelve. Then the child spoke, “You're going to wish you'd never touched my mother.”

 

Words choked my throat so that when they finally left, I sounded as old as the kid I was pointing a gun at. “That's your mom?” 

 

The boy helped his mother up to crouching, took her sword and took a protective stance in front of her. “She is. And you will not touch her again while I draw breath.”

 

Dick and I exchanged a glance. He noticed the resemblance too. He asked the kid, “Who's your father? Talia’s been dead for months.”

 

“I'm told my father's Bruce Wayne, but he left before he knew of my existence. He's dead to me,” This kid spoke like some nineteenth century novel, all pronunciation and a stagnant arrogance. “A sperm donor, nothing more.”

 

“How's that even possible?” I blinked blood out of my eyes, wiped my stinging brow with my sleeve. “Bruce and Talia didn't know each other until eleven years ago at least.” 

 

Bruce was contacted first by Ra’s as a young man, so maybe it was possible they met then. But as far as I knew for sure, from what Dick told me from his time as Robin, he and Talia met when he was fifteen. So, eleven years ago. 

 

“Unimportant,” The kid said, and the League men mustered behind him. If he was Talia's son, he could give orders. “But do you know what is?” He held out his pinkey finger, and as I glared with wide eyes at the key chain around it, my hand subconsciously went to my belt. My keys were gone. He pressed the one button I was always careful not to touch. “How big of a boom that tank of yours is going to make. Best get moving, you've got ten seconds.”

 

He tossed them to me, and threw a palmful of smoke pellets to the ground. My heart was an anvil in my chest, as I spun on my heel - Falcone be damned - and sprinted faster than my lungs were ready for. I opened my comms, and screamed down the line: 

 

“GAIL, GET OUT OF THE TANK!”

  
  
  
  
  



	51. The Battle for Gotham, Part II

_ I know ends don’t justify the means in your holy book... _

 

I did not hear Dick shouting behind me as I raced up the dirt tunnel. I did not hear my own voice screaming her name. I did not hear my guns cocking. I did not hear my own heart throbbing in my chest. 

 

_ But please… _

 

My eardrums rang like a broken stereo, static in my spine as I stepped over ninjas foolish enough to touch an electrified door. They twitched as I passed them, and bolted in the direction of the tank, only to find the main hall flooded with people and violence. The countdown was synced with my helmet, and when the ringing stopped, the ticking replaced it. 

 

_ Please God, don’t let my family die today.  _

 

In the heart of the dark, I looked for the sun to shine. I found the yellow sun at the top of the waves of people, rolling with fists thrown and blocked. The gun turret was out of rounds, her hands wrapped around a rifle instead and I shouted her name, but couldn’t hear my own voice. 

 

_ I’m beggin’ you. I just found them again… _

 

Even if I couldn’t hear it, she did. She ducked beneath the shield of the turret and looked at me. She dove for me as soon as the word ‘out’ left my mouth, rifle under her arm. I tucked and rolled with her, then as soon as my zipkick was in hand, I aimed for the yellow hub on Robin’s chest. He leaned back to support the grip as we zoomed towards him. He ducked us behind a barricade they made from three metal desks they'd overturned from the lobby of City Hall. As the timer hit zero, the Hellbat armor dove in front of us, spreading the black triple-titanium wings. 

 

_ And...they’ve only just forgiven me for what I’ve done. _

 

Fire burst from the tank and roared in all directions. I clutched Gail to my chest, held onto her like the last chance and cursed under my breath. I felt her gloved hand slip into mine, and squeeze tight. I caught Dick’s eye over her head and his smile, teeth whiter among the filth on his face. 

 

_ I know I'm just a real angry guy with a lot of guns and too much nerve and not enough patience and no faith in your justice… _

 

When the initial blast was over, we - like soldiers in the great wars - emerged from our hiding place to attest to the casualties. And that's what we were for this city. Soldiers. We, who loved this place. 

 

_ But...Let this be the only time you listen to me. I've prayed to you before and I didn't get shit, but I'm...I need this. I really need this right now. _

 

When the sound of motors came over the crackling of what was left of my once-beautiful tank, I heard Gail reload the rifle.

 

_ You didn't give me death, you didn't give me better parents, you didn't give me jack shit , but right here, right now _ -

 

We didn't even think. I took the empty mags out of my handguns, Dick twirled his escrima sticks, and Tim extended his staff. Selina produced a bolo and whirled it around. Batwoman merely clenched her already blood-soaked fists. 

 

I glanced over at Gail. I saw the determination in her eyes, that boundless determination that spat at risk and kept me gasping.

 

_ I'm telling you that while I don't deserve saving, they do. And I'm in love... _

 

Alfred walked over to the hunk of tank still smoking, the jagged metal warped like a flower in bloom, and lifted it. A creaking that made my heart sink sounded from the Missus’ carcass, and I frowned. Dick patted my shoulder. 

 

“Miss Starfire?” 

 

A whoosh and her flaming silhouette came into the sun by him. Alfred asked her, as if simply imposing upon her to get the mail, “Throw it at the new wave, if you please.” 

 

“Certainly.” And she took it from him. 

 

“Be easy with her,” I said. “She's been through enough already.” As Kori switched grips to throw, I turned my back. “I can't watch.”

 

“Oh, will you stop?” Tim rolled his eyes. “It's just a tank. You shouldn't have it anyways.”

 

“ _ Just a tank?”  _ I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can't even look at you right now.”

 

“Anytime you want to stop being a drama king, Jason,” Gail said. “We have incoming.”

 

And Batwoman, who hadn't said much the entire time I'd known her, said to Gail, “You'd think he'd be more focused on killing Falcone.”

 

“You'd think.”

 

I shook my head, and I heard the distant boom of my girl going up in flames. Yeah, it was just a tank. But she was  _ my  _ tank. She ran like a dream and if I ever find the old man's twerp of a son, I'll shove that sword up his ass for this. I teetered as I stood, high on violence and bloodlust. 

 

The comms line came in, and Barbara gave us the siren song, “ _ Nightwing and Company, you've got backup. Gordon and about forty cops are almost there. _ ”

 

“Anybody ever tell you you're wonderful?” Tim asked through the earpiece, and I saw Dick stir to my right. 

 

“ _ Occasionally. Oracle out. _ ”

 

Dick rolled his shoulders. “Let's move out, people.”

 

We were five feet out of the ruined City Hall when we saw the black line of Falcone trucks. Starfire hovered just above us, hair blazing against the blue sky. I heard the sirens as they echoed to us across the city. Gordon wasn’t more than ten blocks out. 

 

Her hand slipped into mine for a moment, just to squeeze and let me know she was nearby, before she reached for her gun. 

 

_ If they die and my city goes to hell, I’m going to blow my brains out.  _

 

_ And then I’ll be coming for you. _

……………………………………………

 

The Batman had not been alone since he left Gotham as a young man to tour the world, and one thing he never anticipated was the silence. Alfred left with no more than a hand on his shoulder as a goodbye, like a father telling his son that he would be back after the work was done. 

 

Before, when he was at work himself, Alfred would come in and give him a piece of news, a meal, a scrap of sarcasm that made him fight a smile. He usually had machines all around him to fill the empty spaces, ran tests a thousand times just to keep the room buzzing. Anything was better than quiet, because that was the sound of an empty mansion that his great-grandfather built by hand. Now, he was alone, and even the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was far too faint to be of any comfort. 

 

He walked in from outside, his eyes raw. He could count on one hand the number of times he had cried so hard: the loss of his parents, the loss of his second partner - his son Jason who had been murdered by his greatest enemy, and then when the woman he loved died. This was a different kind of loss. 

 

Say what you will about alter egos, and the necrosis they perform on the original psyche, but Batman had saved Bruce Wayne’s life. The past six months had been a master’s class in denial, denying that Joker had ever gotten inside him. Denying that Joker had been in control, that Bruce had lost his own body to the man who murdered his son, his love, crippled a valued friend, and destroyed a thousand other lives. Denying that it had ever affected his ability to stop Scarecrow, though he knew it had. Denying that he had ever gotten close to crossing the line. Denying that Joker’s death was an accident. 

 

The wall was crumbling, and it threatened to bury him alive. Alfred leaving had been the wake-up call he needed, and dreaded. A doting parent telling his son to grow up, and let go of foolish fantasies of nobility and knighthoods. To stop playing games with his life, and the people that needed him. 

 

Bruce scrubbed at his face, his eyes stinging. He collapsed into the couch, his eyes raising skyward. He reached out for the remote, the silence deafening him. He needed noise, distraction.

 

The news station that he had wired for Gotham came on, and Bruce’s heart stopped in his chest. His boys made the news again. 

 

The running coverage at the bottom of the screen read,  **Gotham vigilantes race to scene to stop renegade criminals from attacking City Hall...So far, Nightwing, Robin, Batwoman, and reformed criminal Catwoman are in the fight, the roof of Hall has come down…**

 

Selina’s words came back to Bruce.  _ Or did you think you’d reformed me?  _

 

**Unknown metal bat has flown in to enter the fray...Starfire of the Titans...and the tank seen a month before is being driven by Red Hood and an unknown accomplice…**

 

“Jason…” 

 

Bruce didn’t realize he was kneeling in front of the TV screen until his hand reached out to them. His kids. The boys he raised, the butler who raised him, the love his life fighting by their side, the cousin he mentored, and he knew that the girl he dove off a building to save six months ago was in the shadows, doing what she could. The footage switched to a helicopter shot of the fighting, and Red Hood had his back to his accomplice, a young woman with blonde hair and blood ran from her lip as she fired into the crowd. Starfire flew past the camera, and hurled Nightwing at an oncoming truck, the high peak of his laughter picked up by the camera’s microphone. 

 

He rose to his feet, backing away until his shoulder blades struck the bathroom door. He entered, and found the mirror across the empty space. There was Alfred’s shaving cream and a straight razor on the counter. The butler had told him once that shaving was something he picked up in the British military, and Bruce had kept himself clean-shaven as well, fighting a very different war. 

 

He glanced at himself, and cracked his aching shoulders. He scratched at his beard, and then his fingers met the cold steel of the razor. 

 

…………………………………………………………………………..

 

When the police arrived, the final push had begun. They formed a circle of squad cars around the fight, and dove into the fray with the best of us. The vigilantes of Gotham, the best officers the city had to offer, fighting side by side. Gordon, pushing fifty, punching the lights out of thugs half his age. Aaron Cash, firing into Falcone thugs with his hook curled around the barrel. 

 

The junction that led to City Hall, burning and breaking behind us, congested with people halfway between medium rare with blood and al dente, baked under the sun. The sweat in my hair sent the blood from a cut at my forehead in a river down the side of my face, and my ribs, legs, and lower back were throbbing with fatigue and old injuries. All of my ammunition was depleted, the leg stores and extra emergency ammo gone. 

 

Despite how exhausted I was, I didn’t have much choice but to fight with the spikes on my gauntlets and my fists. Hand-to-hand. The last time I was this exhausted was when I fled Arkham with Deathstroke, escaped from my genesis. Somehow, I had the same feeling of hollowness. Like if I closed my eyes, I could wake up and it’d be over. 

 

But I couldn’t close my eyes with Gail wheezing behind me. She still had ammunition, but was saving it, her guns in her holsters. The sunlight exploded off the sword she’d plucked off a dead assassin as she ran it through mafia foot soldiers. I smirked at her. Didn’t need to reload a blade. 

 

I smashed a diving thug’s face into a signpost, and as more charged, Gail brought the sword down on the spray cap of a fire hydrant. The water blasted into the crowd, and I grinned. I grew up in this city, and I remembered playing in fire hydrant water against cop warnings as a kid. I dove into the fray with a whoop, the sting of the spray at my calves. 

 

Even with that small reprieve, I caught the glare from a squad car hood and past it, the shine of something terrible. From the rubble inside City Hall came a figure caked in dirt, but the metallic glint from the arm was unmistakeable. And then I saw Gail bolt straight for him, shouting his name with the air she didn’t have and couldn’t keep. 

 

“CARMINE!” 

 

Even with my muscles screaming, I tore off after her, and slid across the hood of the car as her blade came down on his metal sleeve. Falcone was cloaked in filth; he must have scraped away from the underground after Nightwing knocked him out. Sparks flew as the edge of the sword met the sleeve again, and I could see my training coming out as she parried his strikes again and again. She set up a high block as I jabbed Falcone in the liver, and she rolled over my back. I ducked under her to nail the muscles under his sleeved arm. 

 

We didn’t even have to think, or check with each other. She knew what I was going to do, and I knew how she’d react, compensate, and attack again. We had the same mind, we fought with it. 

 

Then I heard Dick screaming, and I took my eyes off Carmine for the split second needed to see a man twice his size with a claw gauntlet digging into my brother’s stomach. A green flash hit the man in the face, but before I could see Starfire burn him where he stood, a knee slammed into my gut. I doubled over, before I was kicked aside and the wind knocked out of me. The force had me skid across the ground, the back of my neck whipped back over the bumper of a squad car and red greased across my vision. 

 

I tasted blood in my mouth. I’d bitten my tongue. I heard Gail grunting, the clang of metal on metal. The smell of burning dirt. The smell of burning hair. 

 

I pushed myself up with the bumper, and staggered towards them. I drew my arm back and stuck my gauntlet to his armor, the spikes piercing his sleeve. He growled through his teeth, spit flying onto my face, “You son of a  _ bitch! _ ” 

 

“Accurate,” I said, and stepped back as Gail chopped the blade into the soft flesh of Falcone’s shoulder joint. He was screeching, crying in his pain as I forced him to the ground. There was someone shouting in the distance, sounded like a cop, the word ‘freeze’, but I disengaged the gauntlet, leaving it in Falcone. 

 

I stood and faced Gordon, my arms wide. My eyes trained on him, his gun pointed at my forehead. “You let her finish it. Then we let you have him, not before.” 

 

He bled from his top lip, red staining his graying moustache. “Should’ve known you’d go back on your word.” 

 

I heard each strike of Gail’s stolen sword, heard Falcone’s cries get weaker and weaker behind me. I felt each spray of blood with every swing hit my jacket. Every noise of frustration as she hacked the mafia boss behind me. I could see the horror on Gordon’s face, his eyes wide, and he called to her, but the way I stared him down advised against it. 

 

Once, a spit of blood hit my glove. My eyes on Gordon, his on me, I bent my arm and sniffed the smear. The new penny smell tarnished. He was minutes away from death. 

 

“You weren’t going to let me finish it if I handed him to you on a silver plate,” I reminded him, “So now she will. She deserves to. He killed her mom, Jim. Tore her family apart.” Gordon’s mouth fell open. “I won’t let her turn into me...He nearly killed six children. He nearly fried Gail and me in a metal box, made life hell for both of us. If she wouldn’t do it...any one of your men would.” 

 

Gordon was no fool, and he didn’t bluff, either. He stepped towards me, until the end of his gun, still hot from firing, was almost touching my right eyebrow. “You’re making a monster...she’s becoming a monster.” 

 

“No...she’s putting one down.” 

 

“Abigail!” Jim cried over my shoulder. “Abigail, stop! Christ’s sake, please stop!” 

 

Gail was still chopping, and it sounded like she was slicing sludge. The crowd still groaned and screamed behind Jim, the fight raged on. Nobody had their eyes on us. It was just us. Gordon. Me. Gail. Her voice rang through me like a death bell tolling, and it didn’t sound like her, but it held all of her clarity.

 

“Don’t take this away from me!” 

 

Without fear, without care, I turned my face away from the gun and my eyes widened. Falcone from the hips up was utterly decimated, his torso and head an unrecognizable mass of blood and flesh. His foot twitched, and Gail spun on her heel, her sword slicing through the ankle and sticking into the road. She tried to yank it back out, but couldn’t. She let it go, heaved air. Her face was spattered with more blood than freckles, her chest and arms up to her elbows drenched in blood already drying in the sun. Falcone’s body stank as the light baked his flesh. 

 

Gail stared down at her gloves, the fingers cloaked in murderer’s blood, and burst into tears. But she didn’t run to me. She ran to Gordon, her arms around him and after a moment of surprise, he hugged her back. Her eyes closed, and I knew she wouldn’t look at me. I knew she didn’t want to. 

 

The fights were dying down, and while my stomach knotted, I started running to them. Dick was gone, and I vaguely heard Catwoman’s comms as I passed, Starfire saying that he was at the Clocktower. I was running to Tim, my hand pressed to my stitched sides. He was curled in a ball in the middle of the street, his mask half gone. He was  _ snivelling,  _ his face streaked with tears and blood. 

 

“Robin,” Old habits died hard, even at a time like this. I reached for his shoulder, “Let me see, man, let me see-... _ Shit _ .” 

 

His hand was gone, a bleeding stump he was attempting to stem with his remaining digits. I glared around, and saw Batwoman, sprawled out on the ground, unconscious. The cops were wounded too, three or four lay bleeding or immobile. I knew the ones unscathed would soon be collecting us. I had to move fast. 

 

My eyes caught the black shape of a Falcone truck. I helped Tim to his feet - well, more like yanked to a standing position and half-dragged instead of assisted walking. I took a fistfull of his cape and ripped a patch off, wrapped it around the stump as we went. 

 

“Come on, Tim,” I told him as he cried, and through all the bravado, how many times he was a royal pain in my ass, I remembered that he was younger than me. He’s the age I was when I was broken. My replacement. “Come on, man. I got you.” 

 

I had him lean against the side of the truck as I broke the driver’s side window with my elbow, and unlocked the doors. I helped him climb the step and he laid out in the back. “Make room. I’m going back for more.” 

 

I stepped up into the cab for a second, broke the plastic under the wheel and hot-wired the truck. I turned the air conditioner on and then shut the door behind me to go back for more wounded. Being a chop shop orphan as a kid comes in handy. 

 

I tried to scan the skies for Alfred in the black armor, but he must be back at the Clocktower, helping Barbara with Dick. I jogged back to Batwoman, my head pounding with heat exhaustion. I sighed shakily at her height. She was taller than I was, and three-quarters my weight. I wrapped an arm of hers over my shoulders, and used my wobbly legs to lift the rest of her up. Her toes dragged as I hauled her back to the truck, and Tim took her by the cape and tugged her into the back bench seat. She was mumbling in her sleep about someone named ‘Maggie’, apologizing in half-whispers. Tim and I exchanged a tired look over her. 

 

I knew I wanted to go back one more time. I knew I had to see if she was okay, but as I rounded the truck, she was already coming. Her hair was streaked pink with Falcone’s blood, and she saw me. She had to stop running halfway over, her cheeks flushed with asthma. 

 

Our eyes met for a brief moment, before she moved past me to ride shotgun. 

 

The police were collecting statements, and victims. I knew Jim would only let us pass this one time. We had just saved the city, he wasn’t going to arrest us for doing his job. 

 

I got in the driver’s seat, and backed out. “Let’s go home.” 

 

………………………………………………………………………….

 

Dick had four major lacerations into his midsection, and if the man had lasted another two seconds, he would have been disemboweled completely. If it weren’t for Starfire’s speed and Barbara’s cool head, I would have lost him today. 

 

Somewhere in the chaos, it was decided that word needed to get to a dead thing called the Justice League about what happened today. About what was coming. Talia and the League had gotten away, and there was something out there waiting for us. Bruce had a son out there. I had a nightmare out there. Gail had a future out there. 

 

Starfire was the only one of us fast enough for the trip, and as much as she wanted to watch over Dick, she knew she was the one for the job. She asked me to look after my brother, even though she knew she didn’t need to. 

 

Gail was upstairs with Barbara, assisting her and Alfred in helping Tim. 

 

Dick had a breathing mask over his nose and mouth, his body white as snow, his hair inky black, and his torso heavily bandaged. I peeled off my armor piece by piece, just as he had when I was shot, until I was just in my armored pants. In my ankle pouch was my burner phone, the only place I kept one. 

 

Behind it was the business card Clark gave me at the memorial gala. I called the number at the bottom. 

 

“ _ Daily Planet, Lois Lane speaking.”  _ She sounded just like she did on TV. Bright. Optimistic. 

 

“Hi, I’m a friend of Clark’s…” I said, my voice quiet as I was sure of what I was doing. “Well. Actually, I’m a friend of Bruce’s.” 

 

A short silence on the other end. “ _ The Bruce Wayne that owns this newspaper? _ ” 

 

Present tense. She knew about Bruce’s death. Unlike Clark to keep it from here, anyway. 

 

“Yeah...I’m Jason. Y’know…” 

 

“ _ The one that torched half of Gotham back on Halloween? _ ” 

 

I sighed. “...Yes. Clark said I could use this line to call in a favor.” 

 

“... _ Smallville thought you might call,”  _ Lois didn’t sound surprised. “ _ He’s actually been talking about you. He’s worried. What do you need?”  _

 

“A friend of mine,” It seemed so trivial, to call her just a friend. “...I need her to leave Gotham, but I want her taken care of. I want to ensure that she’ll be safe. I’m putting her on your radar because your boy toy is, well, Superman.” 

 

“ _ I noticed, _ ” Lois said, and I could hear the smile. “ _...Has she ever been to Metropolis?”  _

 

“Not that I know of.” 

 

“ _ Does she know what a maple donut looks like?”  _

 

“What?” I squinted, my eyes on the joints between the tiles on the floor. 

 

“ _ Relax, hot shot...Can you send me her digital resume in the next ten minutes?”  _

 

I glanced around, and found one of the computers Barbara had in every room of this Clocktower. “Yes.” 

 

“ _ Name?”  _

 

“Abigail Byron.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	52. One For My Baby, One More For the Road - FINALE

“But this torch that I found

It's gotta be drowned

Or it soon might explode

So make it one for my baby

And one more for the road”

 

  * Frank Sinatra, “One For My Baby”



……………………………………………………..

 

Starfire returned the next day. I had been revolving around the door of sleep and dazed consciousness, and I was more than happy to let her take over Dick’s vigil. Not because I didn't want to be there when he woke up, but because I figured he'd want to be surrounded by his reasons for living when he did, not a reminder that he could have died.

 

Kori brought news with her. The Justice League, which had been disbanded a year before I was kidnapped, barely had a consciousness. 

 

Superman had been operating alone, fighting the global good fight in Ukraine. He was easiest to track down. Flash wasn't in Central City, but Iris Allen was available to pass on the info that her husband was on a mission in time. Something about fighting himself. The trip to Paradise Island was difficult, but even more difficult was convincing Diana to return to the world of man. In the end, it proved useless. Even with the threat of Luthor becoming President, she wouldn't leave her island. It was a shame; I always looked up to her. Martian Manhunter was still masquerading as a detective, and seemed content to stay that way. He had his doubts, J’onn. He didn't think the JLA would reorganize itself. Hal Jordan was beyond our reach, and beyond our help. John Stewart was the closest Lantern, and he agreed to help if the situation arose, but he was wary like the rest of them. 

 

It was no secret who they were waiting for. But from what Alfred’s told me, the old man isn't coming home anytime soon. He was too busy feeling sorry for himself. I forced myself not to think about him on the drive back to the firehouse, and did my best to strike up a conversation with the quiet girl in the passenger's seat. 

 

“How are you?” The question always seemed simpler in my head. 

 

She was wearing a shirt of Kori’s, three sizes too big and it fit like a dress, barely covering her shorts. She'd had a shower, as had I. I wore a spare pair of jeans and a black v-neck, sandals Dick wasn’t using. The Clocktower was a bunkhouse of sorts. Her hair was tied up in a bun, her bangs pinned back. Her hands were trapped between her thighs, fingers clasped. “...I got an email from Lois Lane before I left. Offered me a job.”

 

I flashed a small smile, pushed it on my face like it walked the plank before the sharks came. “That's great, sunshine. Metropolis is safe.”

 

Her eyes snapped over to mine and I hated how the light was red, giving me no choice but to meet them. “I don't want to leave Gotham.”

 

“It isn't safe for you here,” I ran a hand through my hair. The last thing I wanted to do right now was argue. “I'm not safe for you. Not now, not ever.”

 

Abigail’s blonde eyebrows knit. “You're blaming yourself. You think you pushed me too far, you think you made me kill Falcone, like you expected me to and that's why-”

 

“-is it?” I stared at her hard, dared her to lie to me. “Did I make you do something you couldn't come back from?”

 

“I was a murderer before I met you.”

 

“Accident.” I corrected, “At your mom's place, that was an accident. You said so yourself. He made move and you shot him.”

 

“It was an accident, but I still killed someone, Jason. I still asked Bullock to cover it up for me.”

 

The light went green and I moved further into Old Gotham. “Self defense if you asked me.”

 

“Premeditated self defense,” Gail sighed, “...You didn't make me do anything yesterday. Everything I did, I did because I wanted to. I needed to...Just like I need to go down this new path.”

 

“...What new path?” I glanced over at her, and she had her head back against her seat, just breathing. Steady as the night I met her. 

 

“When I was fighting by your side, by Dick and Tim's sides...it felt amazing…” She sighed again, the tiniest of smiles. “I wanted to help people. From the beginning, I wanted to give people a way to make sense of what happened to them. I thought philosophy and papers and education and speeches could do that. But what we did in City Hall yesterday? That made a difference. More than anything.”

 

My heart lodged itself in my throat, and I took a hand off the wheel to hold hers. I wanted so badly to give this to her. “Sunshine, it's too dangerous. I'm not kidding. You don't want a suit. Trust me.”

 

“I know it's dangerous, but...I want to help,” Gail insisted, gripping my hand. “Jason, I don't want to go. I don't want some desk job in a squeaky clean city. I want to stay where I was raised. Where I know people.”

 

“So what? You can end up dead in a ditch when I fail you - again?” I tried to let go of her, but she kept me in her fingers. “I'm not turning into Bruce for you to turn into another me. It won’t happen, Abigail.”

 

Her hand finally loosened and I pulled my hand away. She let me. I squeezed the car through the hole in my engine bay door. Anyone who stole from here would have it melt in their hands about now. 

 

She didn't get out right away. I was already out of the car and had my foot on the first step on the staircase, when she got out and slammed the door. “Jason, I don't want to go.”

 

Something in me broke, and swung free as I whirled. I stalked up to her and said, my eyes bored into hers. “I  _ want  _ you to go…” I stepped back when she glared at me, mouth open. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, looked away. “Pack your shit. I want you out of here. My life has been a mess, a damned horror show since I dragged you in it, and I trained you because it was practical. I let you live here because it was  _ practical.  _ You had information, we needed information. I shouldn't have let my feelings get involved. It entangled everything and I've been tripping over you ever since.”

 

Gail flinched like I'd slapped her, and her hands balled up into fists. I wished she'd use them. It would feel better than this. She said, “You're saying this to be cruel so I'll leave. Like when we met. You're taking steps backwards.”

 

“Maybe we need to go back.” I pushed my bruised knuckles into my pockets, my hair in my eyes. “Go back to being strangers. Or at least to indifferent acquaintances...C’mon, I'll help you pack.” I turned my back a second too late to avoid seeing the sting on her face. I started up the stairs. “I'm tired of getting my hopes up on something that was a bad idea to start with.”

 

I heard her say behind me, “Sorry for saving your life.”

 

The knife in my chest dug an inch deeper. She always knew how to bring the pain. She was close enough to do it. So was I. 

 

“Me too.”

 

…………..

 

She didn't cry the entire time we packed her things, not a single tear, but I did. I just refused to let her see it. I told her I was going to check my computer room for any of her stuff, but the minute I sat in my chair, I doubled over, my arms around my stomach, my forehead against the desk, and let it start. The tears rolled down my crooked nose, pattered to the floor. 

 

I made this decision. I made it a long time ago. I reached into the right hand drawer and pulled out a envelope. The envelope she would've found if she had gone through my things in the event of my death. It was a simple orange envelope with  **A.B.** written on the front, her initials. I set it on my desk, and ran my knuckles over my cheeks. I sniffed, and coughed. I'd give it to her when she left. 

 

I went back to her in the records room, and I asked her what she wanted to do with the records, her turntable. I offered to have them hauled in trucks to wherever she was going to live in Metropolis. She took one look at me, and she knew. She knew I'd cried. 

 

“You keep them,” I tried to argue, but she shook her head. “Don't. When I started living here, I always thought it was too quiet. Too quiet to think, even. At first, I thought it was the place...But no…” She slid her hands into her back pockets. “It's you. I want you to keep them. Maybe you'll think of me while you're here.”

 

“Ever think that's why I don't want to keep them?” I asked, but I knew she wouldn't budge. “Fine. I'll keep them. For you.”

 

She patted my elbow as she passed, and it took everything in me not to spin her around. I knew as soon as she was gone, I needed to change where I hung my hat. But I would keep the records. I’d keep them for her. I’d clean them and listen to them. Think about those nights we listened to them while I braided her hair when she couldn’t sleep. 

 

I knew that from here on out, I’d be listening to them alone when I couldn’t sleep. 

 

…………………………………………….

 

The rest of the day was spent packing. Abigail didn’t have many things, it just consumed time to pack up a friendship in suitcases, a bit longer to pack up something more. Every one of her books I would mail to her new residence as soon as I had her address. 

 

“You’re going to write me, aren’t you?” She asked as I picked up the first bags to put in the trunk of her car. Her hair was braided, and she wore a pair of my sweats I didn’t have the heart to ask her to return, along with the same Gotham U jersey she wore when I met her. 

 

“Unless I pay Kori to ferry them back and forth, I can’t run the risk of the messages being traced either way.” I clenched my fists around the straps of her bags. “I’m sorry. You know I would.” 

 

“It’s okay…” She sighed, and we began the assembly line. She’d take them to the top of the stairs, and I’d carry them to the trunk. She kept trying to meet my eye as I walked up, but my gaze stayed down. I needed to watch my step for more than the creaky floorboards. 

 

“Text me?” She asked on the fourth trip, when there were just her carry-ons. 

I shook my head. “Need to change my numbers. Going underground for a while. Most of the police department has seen my face now. This place will be crawling with cops within the week. I’ll be bleaching it after I haul my things out…” 

 

“Oh.” 

 

I shrugged as she went ahead of me down the stairs, and the folded envelope in my inner jacket pocket felt heavier. I knew what she was thinking. 

 

She was thinking about the stain on the kitchen wall. One night we’d been cooking dinner and in the midst of her dancing to Chicago, she’d flung pasta sauce onto the wall. No amount of cleaner got it out, as much as I tried and teased her about ruining the plaster. 

 

She was thinking about the books, where we fell asleep with novels on our faces and some nights, holding hands. 

 

She was thinking about the very end of the hall, the door with the thousands of knicks in it where we practiced knife-throwing at fifteen, twenty, thirty paces. 

 

_ Eyes on the target, Todd.  _

 

_ What for? I can look at you and throw at the same time.  _

 

I remembered how that knife sang, and how big she grinned. She was thinking about it all, wasn’t she? 

 

Her finger was running along the banister of the staircase. We’d repainted it together, discussing everything under the sun. We talked about how many real life Wickhams we knew, how few Gatsbys were around to throw lavish parties, and how many Jekylls and Hydes we must walk past in a day. She thought  _ This Side of Paradise  _ was gorgeous, and I thought she was too. I could still see the paint stains on the side of her thumb.  

 

With the rest of the car so full, the carry-ons had to go on her lap for the trip. She tried to move to the driver’s side, but I held my hand out, as I had so many times, for her keys. I managed a small smile, my voice soft. “One last time. I’ll drive you.” 

 

She bit her lip, and then turned to go around. I slid into her driver’s seat. She took a few seconds more to get into the car, but her cheeks were shining when she did. I backed the car out through the hole in the engine bay, and made my way to Bernard Kane Memorial Airport. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as Gotham International, so it should be fine. I already had her ticket in my pocket. First class. The pilot owed me a favor, and I called it in. 

 

Without looking at her, I reached for her hand on the console and weaved our hands together. She peeked at me sideways, sniffing as she wiped her face. 

 

“Y’know, you promised me on that gargoyle…” Her thumb rubbed the side of mine. “That you wouldn’t let me walk out again.” 

 

I lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. Some of the scars there were from my teeth when we sparred. She always knew where to hit me hardest. “I told you I wouldn’t let you walk out, not that I wouldn’t help you leave...I also promised to keep you safe. That I’d look after you.” 

 

“...You sending me to another city doesn’t guarantee my safety. It only pisses me off. Burglar could just as easily pick me off.” 

 

I laughed against her skin. “I pity the damn fool that tried to rob you, sunshine.” 

 

“Not the point.” She turned her hand in mine, and her palm rested against my branded cheek. “I want to stay here, Jason. I want to stay with you.” 

 

“Abigail,” I looked over at her and met her eyes. “...You know as well as I do that Gotham’s only going to get worse from here, and with the massive target on my back now, nobody’s going to give a damn about going through you to get to me. If Falcone can pick out how much I…” I stopped myself and amended the truth. “...how much I care about you, then so can Talia. Or Joker. Or anyone else.” 

 

“I know…” Her breath caught as I kissed her palm, my stubble against her wrist. “Doesn’t mean I like it, Jay.” 

 

“You’ve made that much clear.” I went back to holding her hand, my mouth dry. “I don’t like it either...But think about it this way,” I tried to loosen my grip on her hand, hers on mine tight, but I couldn’t do it. “You’ll meet somebody out there, somebody who isn’t complicated and wants to be with you.”  _ As much as I do, unlikely.  _ “Who knows? I don’t. I don’t know shit. But hey, it might happen. It probably will happen.” 

 

Gail looked over at me with wide eyes, and her mouth open. Half anger, half hurt. She jerked her hand away from mine. “...I’m not going on a  _ vacation _ . I’m not going on a cruise. I’m not going on a speed dating event. I’m going to Metropolis for a job that I didn’t even earn, to work for a woman that is engaged to Superman, because the one man I trust more than anything won’t let me near him. Won’t let me help him or be close to him. So don’t treat it like I chose this. Or so help me, Jason, I’ll hijack this car right from under you and turn around. I’m doing this  _ for you _ . So that  _ you _ will be safe and you can do the work that I still believe you can do.” 

 

Each word slammed into me like machine gun fire, my chest feeling full of holes and her. “Murphy’s Law. I’m talking about Murphy’s Law. Anything that can happen, will happen. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” 

 

She threw her hands up, and glared out the window. I growled and wheeled the car into an alley, shut it off. I grabbed her shoulder and made her face me. “Look at me. I’m not doing this to hurt you, okay? I’m not sending you to Metropolis because I don’t want you here. I’m not kicking you out, I’m helping you make a life someplace where public sphere violence is a backburner concern. I’m sending you someplace where the vigilantes are bulletproof and can lift buildings off you. And there’s more than one of ‘em.” 

 

I cupped her face in my hands, and I watched her eyes well. I felt my own do the same. “You think I want you scared, Wednesday? You think I want you out there in a big beautiful city like that, worrying incessantly about me and what I’m doing that you ain’t living at all? No.” I shook my head, my eyes closing before I put my forehead to hers. “I want you happy, honey. I want you smiling ear to ear, laughing so hard you’re cryin’ because you don’t have a care in the world. As much as I want what you’re laughing at to be me...at the end of the day, I don’t care who it is. I don’t care if it isn’t me. I care that you’re alive. If you’re alive, I’m alive.” 

 

Right there in my hands, she broke. She clenched her teeth, and as soon as the harsh sobs raced up her throat, so did mine. I reclined my seat back, and she climbed over the console. Just like on that gargoyle, she laid on me as I wrapped my arms around her. I cried into her hair, shaking us both with every breath. She balled my shirt in her hands, her face against my neck. I ran my fingers through her hair, the last time I’d get the chance, and she yanked the tie off so they fell around her face. The soft, blonde strands I braided when she got upset, knowing it calmed me too. 

 

“I don’t wanna go yet,” She mumbled, her fingers in my hair and running over my scars. “I don’t wanna go yet. Can we stay here? Please?” 

 

“We d-don’t have t-t-to go yet,” I stammered, holding her closer to me. 

 

Like anxious kids, after we cried, we slept for at least an hour. I woke up before her, the sky fully dark. I’d normally be suiting up for my shift, but my mind was far from that. I laid there, my arms around her, and just smelled her hair. I twirled strands around my fingers and worked any tangles gone. I calmed down, and my eyes were raw and red. Hers were too once she woke.

 

Gail stumbled as she reseated herself, and I fixed my seat back upright. She kept my hand as we pulled out of the alley. 

 

…………………………………………………………

 

Bernard Kane Memorial was almost deserted at midnight. Nobody but the sleepy attendants were there, and the terminals were somewhat empty. I got her tickets checked in, and security checked us both. I didn’t take guns with me on this trip. This was one errand I wanted to run disarmed entirely. I didn’t need armor with her. 

 

I didn’t know how to say goodbye to a friend. I’d never had one before. The others grew on me, liked me before I liked them. They attached the strings, but I’d never had to cut any. I didn’t cut my string to Bruce, Joker did. 

 

But there she was, standing with her carry-ons by her feet. She and I were both looking at the floor, close enough to feel her breath on my hands as I held out the envelope between us. 

 

“Do me a favor?” I asked her, chewing the inside of my cheek. 

 

She drew in a slow breath. “Sure. What is it?” 

 

“Open this when you’re on the plane. Inside you’ll find a CD, a note, and some other things. I’ve stashed my CD player at the very bottom of your small carry-on, earbuds too. Don’t open it before you get on the plane, open it once you’ve taken off. Listen to the CD while you read the note, they go together.” 

 

She didn’t bother to argue. She folded it and stuck it into the pocket of the sweats she’d borrowed. “Parting gift?” 

 

“Something like that.” 

 

She quirked a half-smile. “Always the mystery man.” 

 

“Always so damn nosy.” I smiled back, though her red-rimmed eyes betrayed what guise of a happy goodbye this might have looked to anyone watching. She had refused to let my hand go, save for security checks, since we arrived. I lifted it again to kiss her knuckles. “Have a safe trip.” 

 

“...Jason?” Her voice was so tiny, like it was the little Wednesday Winters with pigtails I’d imagined asking me. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Gail bit her lower lip. “We’re still going to be friends, right?” 

 

My mouth curled into a frown, and I reached out to grab her by the shoulders. I pulled her into my chest, and forced the wax in my throat down. She wrapped her arms around my hips. I told her in her ear, “Yeah, Gail. We’re always gonna be friends.” 

 

“Doesn’t matter where we are, huh?” 

 

“Not at all.” I agreed, before I released her and made myself step backwards. I shoved my hands in my pockets and smiled. “Doesn’t matter where we are, we’re going to be friends.” 

 

“Best friends.” She said, but didn’t return the smile. She picked up her bags, her eyes on mine before she turned her back. 

 

She walked slowly, my heart in my throat, and I knew she wanted me to stop her. 

 

I daydreamed about how it might go. 

 

I'd jog - no. I'd run to her. 

 

She'd drop her bags when I picked her up. I'd hold her so close to me it'd be like I was trying to merge our chests together. I'd have my hand in her hair when I kissed her. I'd kiss her and beg her not to go, tell her I'd changed my mind and I'd die before I let her go. 

 

But it didn't happen. She realized I wasn't going to go after her, too. And she was walking at a steady gait when she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. 

 

The warmth in me sapped through the floor, before I left the airport. 

 

…………………

 

Her nails tore open the envelope smoothly, and the contents spilled out over the food tray she'd pulled down. Two thick wads of cash came first, and she sighed. 

 

What was it with the people she loved sneaking money to her? 

 

She flipped the cash over in her hands. Had to be at least fifteen grand there. A folded piece of paper fluttered down, and then the CD. She fished through her bag for the CD player and set up her earbuds. The CD was white, with black Sharpie scrawled in Jason’s handwriting.  _ Everything I Almost Told You.  _

 

The first song started with piano, and Gail, having introduced him to it in the first place, choked up. She put her hand over her mouth, and opened the note. 

 

_ Sunshine,  _

 

_ If you’re reading this, one of two things has happened: either I died saving you and you’ve found this note, or I succeeded in getting you out of Gotham after everything was done. It doesn’t matter which. Not really.  _

_ I’m writing this as you’re sleeping, right next to you, actually. You breathe so slightly that I sometimes have to stare to make sure you still are breathing. You’re beautiful, Abigail. God, you’re beautiful. And you’re smart, and you make me laugh when I don’t want to. You’re just. Sometimes I think my moral compass points to you because you’re the true north I never found on my own. Sometimes I know you’re one of the best things that has ever happened to me.  _

_ When I look at you, I see the girl that saved me from bleeding out, and I see the girl who laid my secrets out like killing tools. And I’m in love with her. I’m in love with you, Gail. Head over heels, ass over teacups, I’m in love with you. I want to shout it sometimes, even though everybody knows it.  _

_ I want to kiss you. Desperately, constantly, and inconveniently. Every time you’ve said my name while I’m looking right at you and didn’t hear you, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. And it ruins me something fierce to know that I’d be sealing your death wish if I ever did. Because then I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’d close my eyes, and already, we’d be knee-deep in it.  _

_ I wanted to be a better man for you. I wanted to hang up the hood. I wanted to lock all of it in a treasure trove of blood and never look at it again. Never hunger for it again, because as long as you’d be with me, I wouldn’t need it to feel anything like I did. I wanted to make sure you never cried for something I could control going to hell. I wanted to make sure that you got a ring and a wedding someday with people to show up, enough people to fill the room. I wanted to make damn sure you were okay. Believe me, sunshine, I did and do want that. I’ll want it for the rest of my life.  _

_ But as long as the mission lives, I have to fight for it. I’m pulling a Bruce here and Jesus, do I hate it, but I’m starting to see what he was trying to do. As long as the objective is clear, I have to fight. So that kids like you and me never go alone or hungry ever again, or end up dead. So that parents don’t have to die for justice. So cops can do their jobs. _

_ You told me once that even though I did a terrible thing as the Arkham Knight, that you believed in me. You told me that yeah, I might be hurting now, but it’d be for something good later on. You believed I could get better, and I have, but I’ve still got so much work to do. I have so much, and the temptation to give up is huge, but...if I’m half the man that deserves you when I finally die, it’ll be worth it.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Jason  _

 

Gail straightened in her seat and raised her face to the roof of the plane. She re-read his name over and over, as she listened to the lyrics of the song. She mouthed them, the tears threatening her eyes again. 

 

_ “We're drinking my friend, to the end...Of a brief episode...Make it one for my baby...And one more for the road.”  _

 

She sucked in a breath. “Dammit, Jason.” 

…………………………………………………….

 

I thought I’d be relieved, but I wasn’t. I thought I’d be glad she was safe, but all I could think about was how soft her hair felt. I shook my head until I was dizzy, and leaned against the elevator. Barb texted me that Dick had woken up while Kori was watching him. Instead of heading back to an empty firehouse, I made a left and made for the Clocktower. 

 

The infirmary floor was spacious, despite the limited numbers on our side. Batwoman was breathing through nebules in her nose, laid up with an IV. Tim was asleep, bare-chested and his handless arm wrapped heavily. 

 

Dick was the popular one today, Barbara and Kori on either side of his bed. Alfred stood at the foot, hands clasped behind his back. Barb was checking his vitals for what probably was the third time, knowing her. She liked to be extra sure with him. Dick caught sight of me over her shoulder, “Jason, hey!” 

 

“Hi,” I flashed a smile I didn’t mean, “How’re you feeling?” 

 

“Only hurts when I laugh,” He said, million watt grin in full effect. He didn’t even consider the possibilities when he asked, “Is Gail upstairs with food or just outside?” 

 

Alfred’s eyes searched my face. He always knew what I was feeling, he knew before I had to say a word. His hands fell. I could see the wheels turning. He processed me, like he did when he pushed at the skin to see where the bones were broken. To see where I was hurting. 

 

“She’s our friend too,” Barbara cross-checked the heartbeat monitor with a clipboard in her hands. “I hope she knows that, she’s welcome in here.” 

 

Koriand’r stood promptly, patting my shoulder as she passed in a wave of strawberry perfume, even in full armor. “Well, I’ll just go get her. She should celebrate with us. Even though we have loss today, she’s just as much responsible for our victory.” I stared at the floor when I heard the door open, and she said, “...Odd. She’s not here.” 

 

Dick’s eyes almost willed me to meet them. His voice was sure, the full weight of brotherly concern. “Jason, where’s Abigail?” 

 

“Over Bludhaven by now…” I said, looking at him. I bit my lip and kept my hands in my pockets, balled into fists. I felt like I had when I was a teenager, terrified to explain to Bruce that the boy I had been protecting succumbed to his injuries. “I talked to Clark, back at the gala and…” 

 

Barbara’s hair flew over her shoulder as she moved to take in my eyes, my posture. “Jason...You arranged for her to be sent to Metropolis, didn’t you?” 

 

I nodded, but before I exhaled the jagged remains of her name, Alfred put his arms around me. I hugged him just as hard as I had at Falcone’s manor, my face in his shoulder. It hurt to bend to do so, and I hated how the years made me too tall, how the years flew before I realized that I wasn’t the boy he pretended not to notice sneaking food into his room. 

 

“Jay…” Dick said, and I heard the sheets rustling, before Barb told him to lay back down. “I know how much she meant to you.” 

 

Alfred didn’t let go until I did, and Kori was next, to my surprise. I didn’t expect a hug from her, but she still squeezed me tight. I patted her arm awkwardly, and thanked her with a nod. 

 

“I’m...certain she knows too,” She said.  

 

Barbara’s hand found mine, and I gripped it. I shook my head, clearing my throat. “But that’s immaterial at this point, we’ve...we’ve got to rebuild. We’ve got work to do.” 

 

“As a family,” Alfred said, his eyes bright. He glanced past me to Tim and Batwoman. “All of us.”

 

The conversation easily devolved, as it always did, to work and I found the relief I was looking for there. But I still couldn’t immerse myself into it without Dick catching my hand before I moved to leave with the others. He waited until they were gone to ask me, “Are you going to be okay? About Gail?” 

 

I sighed. The lesson was firm now, concrete into my spine and my chest. 

 

“Better a broken heart than a broken neck.” 

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the end of The Great Pretender. Be sure to leave a review to let me know how you liked the story now that it's done, and if you'd like to read the sequel, which is up as this last chapter is up.   
> It's been a long road. All of you were there at the beginning.   
> And now, you get to see how Jason's story ends...with the sequel to The Great Pretender entitled The Red Outlaw.   
> Best regards,   
> TheStudyInRed


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